


Choose Your Battles

by stargatefan_archivist



Category: Stargate SG-1
Genre: Angst, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-10-10
Updated: 2003-10-10
Packaged: 2018-10-06 13:10:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 29,728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10335419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stargatefan_archivist/pseuds/stargatefan_archivist
Summary: Warnings: Let me acknowledge immediately that IknowMarines areperfectly wonderful folks.  But there are a few...Spoilers: Tiny for "Shades of Gray"Season: Takes place late in Season Three, some time after Makepeace departs.Summary: The new SG-3 has a few difficult rough edges, and the generalfigures SG-1 is just the team to polish them away.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Yuma, the archivist: this work was originally archived at [Stargatefan.com](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Stargatefan.com). To preserve the archive, we began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [StargateFan Archive Collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/StargateFan_Archive_Collection).

Stargate SG-1 FanFiction - Choose Your Battles

##  Choose Your Battles

##### Written by Brionhet  
Comments? Write to us at [brionhet@rcn.com](mailto:brionhet@rcn.com)

  * SPOILERS: Tiny for Shades of Gray 
  * Warnings: Let me acknowledge immediately that I *know* Marines are perfectly wonderful folks. But there are a few... 
  * SUMMARY: The new SG-3 has a few difficult rough edges, and the general figures SG-1 is just the team to polish them away. 
  * Season/Story Info: Independent story, takes place late in Season Three, some time after Makepeace departs. 
  * G [A] 



* * *

Damn, Jack hated these stupid meetings. Every two weeks, an hour wasted listening to SG team commanders whine. How come they **all** whined except **him**? 

And this new guy Pall was seriously bad news. The new SG-3. Him and his whole team of Marine bullies. They’d been on base for two days, and he was already hearing about them. Every clerk, nurse and technician on the base was ducking out of sight when they swaggered by. Carter got all flinty-eyed over them. And Daniel just ducked his head in that old, bad way. 

Finally! The general was making finishing up noises. Jack propelled himself to his feet, eager to escape the turgid atmosphere of administrative duty. 

"Colonel O’Neill?" 

Crap. 

"Sir?" 

The general stood beside his padded chair, the new Marine team commander rigidly at parade rest beside him. He could tell by the slight twist to George’s mouth that whatever he had to say, it wasn’t going to make Jack O’Neill happy. 

"Colonel O’Neill, you’ve been introduced to Colonel Pall. You know he’s here to take Colonel Makepeace’s place leading SG-3." 

"Yessir." 

"Two of SG-3’s other members are also new to the SGC. They’ve completed their off-base training regimens. Admirably." Was there a hint of irony behind that Texas twang? "However, since three quarters of the team are new, I’m reluctant to toss them straight into the field. I’d like you and SG-1 to take them under your wings for a while—help them settle in and learn the ropes, then take them on a couple of joint missions." 

Oooooh, shit. He’d read these bozos’ files. Bad, bad news. 

"Ah, Sir… Do you really think that’s necessary?" Why not just toss them through the Gate and let Apophis and his Merry Jaffa Chorus polish up their training? 

"I do, Colonel." The message behind the serious words was clear. "You and Colonel Pall can discuss the particulars, but for the next week at least, your team’s number one responsibility is to handle SG-3’s orientation." 

"Got it, Sir." Damn, damn. 

Jack eyed the other colonel speculatively as Hammond left them alone in the briefing room. Pall’s ice-blue eyes revealed exactly how eager he was to get ‘oriented’ by SG-1. What a fun week **this** was going to be. 

"Colonel… ?" 

"Colonel. The general is mistaken. We’re well trained, field ready and damned good. And we’re Marines. Best of the class Marines. I can’t figure what he thinks we need you for." 

"Ah. You’ve got it all figured out, I see. Marines to the front, all is well, right?" 

"Look, O’Neill, my team is sharp and ready. We don’t need to be baby-sat by a bunch of…" 

Jack felt his eyebrows leap upward as Pall strangled off the end of his sentence. Suddenly he realized that he was really, really angry. Angry at Hammond for doing this to him, and angry at what close proximity to this arrogant bigot and his team was going to do to his **own** people. Just… really angry. 

"A bunch of… ? A bunch of what, **Lieutenant** Colonel Pall? A bunch of… veterans? A bunch of… experts? A bunch of first class soldiers, with a coupla bona fide geniuses and a real-life Goa’uld expert thrown in for good measure? ‘Cause from where I’m sittin’, what **you’ve** got yourself is one sound man and two greenhorns who probably need help tying their shoes!" 

The Marine’s pale skin flamed in fury. "A jumped-up flyboy and his crew of oddball misfits!" 

"Ah, the Marine mind! I’m assuming that you’ve actually read the materials they gave you about the history of this project? You do know our record?" 

Pall’s eyes flickered to the door through which Hammond had exited. He lowered his voice to an angry hiss. "I know you and that bunch of losers have staggered your way through way more missions than anyone with brains should have given you! How the hell can they keep sending you out… a woman, the creature from the black lagoon and, God help the universe, a goddam civilian!" 

"I thought you implied that you’d actually **read** that stuff they gave you! Ten years from now—if you and those Marine pinheads of yours are still here—you’ll **still** be trying to match our first year’s mission record. Actually, I don’t imagine that you morons will make it past the first couple of missions they let you take by yourselves. A shit-shame, actually, since Hindman deserves a hell of a lot better support than you jokers will ever give him." 

Jack shook his head ruefully, allowing his gaze to sweep up and down the other colonel’s body. "You do know what Hammond actually assigned me to do, don’t you? My assignment is to try to knock as much of that pissass Marine stupidity out of your heads as possible, and teach you how real **soldiers** behave. Because if someone doesn’t, you’re for the high jump, one way or another." 

Pall’s snarl was a work of art. "I’ll match my team against those **soldiers** you pal around with any day." 

"Well, you’re going to get your chance, aren’t you? Now, unlike you, I’ve actually studied the files on you and your kindergarten team. Let’s see…" He ticked off one finger. "You’ve got Willis—top of his class, arrogant shithead. I imagine he’s probably the first idiot ever to actually **enjoy** Marine hazing. Top marks all the way through Basic. They made him a DI so he could get **more** experience at bullying. Coupla years stationed in the middle east, throwing his weight around among the locals. He pushes anyone he sees as pushable, and since he’s learned the worst of his ‘Marine asshole’ lessons very well, that’s just about everyone." 

"Willis is a first-class Marine, with an exemplary record. And that means he can out-soldier any **airhead** on this or any other base!" 

"Around here, we value the concept of ‘team,’ and the team includes all of the support staff. Willis treats them like his personal slaves. And incidentally, if he tries it on with Carter again, I’m going to give her permission to show him the error of his ways. You might remind him that ‘major’ means the same thing, whether the uniform is Marine or Air Force." 

Pall’s lip actually curled. "Oh, I can see it now…" 

"Better keep a choke-chain on that boy, or you will. And that’s always assuming Teal’c doesn’t let him have it first for disrespecting Doctor Jackson." 

"Jackson! That sorry pukehead has no business anywhere near a military operation!" 

"Yes, it’s been obvious from the first that your kiddies take their tone from Daddy. Daniel Jackson has more than proven that he belongs here. Which is more than can be said for anyone on your team, other than Hindman. If he weren’t a Marine, he’d be a pretty decent guy. I’d suggest you have a little talk with him about Daniel before you continue exposing your opinions to the rest of the base. You won’t find many around here who’ll appreciate your point of view. Daniel fought hard for the respect of the military personnel involved in this operation, and he more than succeeded. If you buttheads don’t get yourselves under control, you’ll discover that SG-1 aren’t the only ones ready to defend him. And he can do a pretty good job of defending himself, if it comes to it." 

Jack ignored Pall’s sputtered revulsion, and ticked off a second finger. 

"You’ve also got Everett--with **two** T’s, as he’s sure to inform. Basically your vaguely stupid, over-aggressive rat. And worshiper at the Shrine of Willis. Basked in Willis’s shadow for two years of active service. A follower, with a monumentally bad example to trail after." 

The veins at Pall’s temples were beginning to bulge and pulse. "Lieutenant Everett received very high ratings during his training, and served his country with honor!" 

Jack shook his head ruefully. "Stupid as a rock. Significantly **more** stupid than some of the rocks Daniel plays with. Jackson could think himself to Chulak and back before Everett could figure out what those holes in his boots were for." 

"Everett knows that good soldiering requires that he do as he’s ordered." At this rate, Pall wouldn’t have any crowns left on those teeth. 

"Well, you got that right. A nice, ratty idiot without the slightest desire to think for himself. Then there’s you… arrogant, stereotype of a Marine jarhead. Diapers stamped ‘U.S. Marines.’ Just as stiff-ass military, but not nearly as smart as Makepeace. How the hell did the three of you get past SGC screening? Shit, if it weren’t for Hindman, you’d be hopeless!" 

Jack jerked himself to a halt. Ah, damn! Okay, time to back off a bit. No need to lower himself to the other man’s level. 

Pall’s livid face was thrust close to his; he could almost see the steam rising from the top of the man’s nearly shaven head. The stiff white-blond bristle of his hair did nothing to conceal the bulging veins tracing over his head. 

"My team is going to plow through this place like a tank, O’Neill." The clenched teeth didn’t seem to interfere with the words at all. "The fact that you and that bunch of zeros are the top dogs around here just demonstrates what a shit-faced operation this is. It’s obviously about time you got a look at **real** soldiers." 

Jack tilted his head back and took a couple of deep breaths. Well, well. This wasn’t accomplishing anything. 

"Right. We’ll see. In the meantime, since I’ve been so ordered by the general in charge around here, I intend to try to beat you assholes into shape. All other things considered, I don’t want Willis to sell us all down the river the first time he meets someone bigger and stronger. Better keep him away from Teal’c—blood is **so** hard to get out of the cement. So here’s what we’re gonna do. I’m meeting my team for lunch; we’re gonna collect your three jarheads, and we’re all gonna get acquainted over mystery meat in the commissary." 

Contempt and fury held the other man rigid for a moment. Then he visibly pulled himself under control, nodded curtly, turned his back and stalked out of the room. 

‘Shit, shit, shit,’ Jack thought bitterly, trailing after. ‘Can’t we start today over?’ 

<<<<<>>>>>

He’d thought this would be the right thing to do. His two teammates had opted to transfer out of the SGC when the colonel screwed up, but he just hadn’t been ready to give up the buzz… the thrill of walking through that Gate. 

However, Colin Hindman was definitely having second thoughts. His new ‘team’ was **not** living up to expectations. In fact, they were assholes of the first rank. He’d always hated the knee-jerk response members of the other services had toward Marines, but these three gave those stereotypes bone and breath. They really **were** jerks. And he was mortally sure they were going to get him killed before he reached his thirty-first birthday. 

Hindman kept his eyes glued to the back of Colonel Pall’s shoulders, determinedly ignoring the two lieutenants behind him. Unfortunately, he couldn’t filter out their low-voiced commentary. Snide, arrogant and outraged, they hadn’t shut up since the colonel’d explained about SG-1. Damn, they were so sure. So certain they were prepared for anything the Gate could deliver. 

He knew they weren’t. And worse, he was pretty sure there wasn’t anything even Jack O’Neill could do to fix what was wrong. Not without brain transplants, anyway. 

Sighing silently, Hindman lifted his gaze as his team followed O’Neill’s silvering head into the commissary. Teal’c, already present, rose to his feet, one brow arching in mild surprise at sight of the men following his team leader. 

"O’Neill?" One word asked a whole list of questions. 

"Hey, Teal’c. Checked out the menu?" 

"I believe we must choose between meatloaf and chicken pie, O’Neill." 

"Ah, yes. Two time-honored ways to disguise leftovers." O’Neill caught the corner of a second table, quirking an eyebrow to elicit the Jaffa’s help. They wrestled the table closer to the one Teal’c had already claimed, ignoring the four Marines, who stood awkwardly by without offering assistance. "No Carter or Daniel?" 

"Not yet, O’Neill. I believe Major Carter has been updating the Stargate dialing program. Daniel Jackson is working with the artifacts brought back by SG-4." 

"We’ll probably have to send a rescue squad; he won’t surface until he’s pried away. Teal’c, meet the new SG-3. Colonel Pall…" Teal’c nodded respectfully, "You know Captain Hindman…" A relaxation of the mouth that could be considered to be a smile, and another respectful nod. Hindman felt his own lips stretch in acknowledgement. "And Lieutenants Willis and Everett." No nod, and definitely no smile. The Jaffa tilted his head and regarded the two junior officers coldly. His disapproval was evident. 

Hindman groaned inwardly at Everett’s reaction to the big alien. The man’s wide-eyed gaze was tracking up and down Teal’c’s body, morbid fascination eloquent in every crease of his face. As Teal’c moved closer to the four Marines, the Lieutenant jerked convulsively backward. Lifting his brows again, Teal’c returned to his position at what was now the head of the table. 

Warily, the six men seated themselves. The three newcomers obviously put as much space between themselves and the Jaffa as they could manage. Hindman rather reluctantly assumed his expected place beside his unit’s commanding officer. He had to work with these guys; he wasn’t quite ready to declare his independence. But this was getting really old. 

For several awkward moments, the group was gripped by silence. O’Neill, positioned next to Teal’c, crossed his arms and leaned back in his seat, eyeing the cluster of men at the other end of the table with vaguely insolent speculation. Hindman twice opened his mouth, searching for something-- **anything** \--to say, but finally just stared down at his clenched hands. 

"Sorry, Sir. Teal’c. Couldn’t leave until I finished testing the alterations to the dialing program." Hindman stood as Major Carter’s hurried entrance broke the tension. Teal’c also rose to his feet and greeted her with respect, but kept his eyes on the two Marine lieutenants. And Hindman was sure the big man had noted the same smirk twitch at Willis’s perfect mouth that he himself had seen. Belatedly, Willis and Everett rose partway to their feet, nodding at the woman. 

Oh, shit. This was going to end in a massacre. 

"Hey, Major." Willis’s greeting was not respectful. Everett’s echo even less so. Hindman’s gaze slid to Pall’s face. Surely the colonel would do something to jerk the two lieutenants back in line. For a moment, all he did was glare at O’Neill’s second in command. 

"Lieutenants!" Pall’s voice cracked sharply. "Don’t dishonor that uniform!" 

For a long moment, Willis ignored Pall, boldly meeting the Air Force colonel’s hard gaze, then he turned to glance at his own colonel’s scowling face. Finally, he stood straight and delivered a text-book salute. "Major Carter, Sir!" he snapped. Everett, of course, duplicated the gesture. 

Major Carter’s smile faded as she absorbed the identities of their unexpected luncheon companions. "Sir?" 

"Have a seat, Carter." O’Neill’s eyes were fixed on the two lieutenants. "We’ve got a real party scheduled for the next week or so. It’s going to be **so** lively and fun that I really don’t want to have to explain it more than once. So we’re all sitting here staring at each other until the gang, as they say, is all here. And since it’s already twenty minutes past lunchtime, I suggest you give our wandering archaeologist a little call." 

"Yes, Sir." With another expressionless stare at the Marines, Major Carter moved to the telephone on the wall. 

"Okay, let’s get something to eat, then when Daniel gets here, we’ll lay out the rules for this game we’re going to play. By the way… first rule, Willis, is that you treat the members of my team with all the respect they’ve earned over the past four years. Compared to them, you’re still crawling around in smelly diapers. You need to learn a ton from them, and there’s not one damned thing you can possibly teach **them** that they don’t already know a hell of a lot better than you do." 

Hindman felt a wave of guilty satisfaction sweep through him. The reprimand was well done—fully justified, and delivered unexpectedly enough to make an impression. Willis was definitely paying attention, though his expression was closer to defiance than submission. 

"You got it, Willis?" 

"All due respect, Colonel, but…" 

" **Got** it, Willis?" 

The lieutenant looked doubtfully at Colonel Pall. "Sir…" 

"Willis!" O’Neill’s knife-edged tone cut through any response Colonel Pall might have contemplated. "For the duration, you are **all** under my command. That includes Colonel Pall. You look to **me** for your orders, not him. Now, **you got all this**?" 

"Yessir!" 

"Everett?" 

"Yessir." 

"Now, I know I don’t need to ask Captain Hindman, but what about you, Colonel Pall?" 

Colonel Pall was obviously not pleased, but his stiff nod apparently satisfied O’Neill. 

Hindman caught Major Carter’s rueful look as she returned from using the telephone to summon Daniel Jackson. He agreed; those two would behave just as long as it took for O’Neill to leave the room. 

He received unhappy confirmation of his assessment as Doctor Jackson rushed into the room, hands and face smudged, eyes vivid with enthusiasm. As the young civilian exchanged greetings with his teammates, Hindman glanced surreptitiously toward the men sitting beside him. The mouths of Willis and Everett were curled in scorn. They exchanged additional comments that they mistakenly believed could be heard by no one else at the table. Also troubling was the more subtle, but essentially identical expression on Colonel Pall’s face. 

Hindman again felt that chill in his middle. He didn’t want to work with these men. Even more, he didn’t want to have to trust his life to them. 

"Daniel, you look like you just crawled out of a sand box! Go wash your face. You can get your lunch and join us when you get back. I’ll save the good news until you’re settled." O’Neill’s affection for his young teammate shone through the scolding tone of his words. 

Jackson cast a questioning look at the four Marines, then nodded quickly and departed, presumably for the sanitary facilities. O’Neill gestured, inviting his new charges to precede him. 

Gloomily, Hindman once again followed his colonel’s back. He wasn’t sure anything he might choose to eat was going to stay in his stomach. 

<<<<<>>>>>

This was really bad news. 

Maybe SG-11 needed a temporary replacement archaeologist for the next few weeks. Maybe those artifacts SG-4 brought back would require his **complete** attention for ten or twelve days. Better yet, maybe he’d just **have** to pay a visit to the Oriental Institute for some essential research. 

Gloomily, Daniel was forced to accept that none of these eventualities was likely to arise to rescue him from the next week or so. 

He really didn’t like these guys. Their behavior brought out things in his own personality that he’d thought he’d left behind. 

Every time he realized that his shoulders were hunched in that old, submissive way, or that he was once again studiously keeping his head down, avoiding eye contact that might be construed as challenging, he berated himself. He’d learned better; Jack, Sam and Teal’c had taught him better. 

But he couldn’t help it. Thirty years of conditioning had taught him that confrontation with men like these never ended well for the Daniel Jacksons of the world. 

This was really bad news. 

Grimly, Daniel let his gaze drift down the line of faces across the table. Colonel Pall was staring at Jack, ostensibly listening. But Daniel couldn’t perceive any respect in his face. The chill of his resentment hung over the table like a… well, like a pall. 

Next to him, Colin Hindman was concentrating on O’Neill’s description of the activities proposed for the upcoming week. Good thing, since Daniel doubted Pall was making any effort to commit anything Jack was saying to memory. 

Daniel liked Hindman. He hadn’t spent a lot of time with him, but the Marine had never treated him with anything but respect, even when he’d first arrived at the SGC to join Makepeace’s team. He really deserved better than this. And he didn’t look very happy. 

Daniel knew Colonel Pall had no respect for people like himself, but he also knew that he wasn’t nearly as big a problem as the final two men on the other team. Willis frankly scared him spitless, and Everett would follow the other man without thought or question. He’d only encountered them a few times, and he already knew they were dangerous. Arrogant, physically intimidating, and convinced of their innate superiority. Dangerous. 

"So, that’s the plan for the next few days." Daniel jerked his attention back to Jack’s voice. "We’ll meet again in the briefing room to assess things on Wednesday and decide whether you’re ready for a little stroll off-world. I’ll make arrangements with the general, and let you all know what time. Got it?" 

The Marines nodded stiffly. Sam’s, "Yes, Sir," should have embarrassed them into echoing, though none of them spoke. Teal’c inclined his upper body toward Jack in a gesture that screamed of respect. 

"Daniel?" 

Daniel nodded quickly, ashamed that he’d been guilty of letting his attention wander inappropriately. Sam would clue him in; she always knew when his head was elsewhere. Jack knew, too. The gentle scowl on his face was a friendly reprimand. 

Daniel’s gaze flicked up and across the table. The scowls on those faces were neither gentle nor friendly. 

Really bad news. 

<<<<<>>>>>

O’Neill found them exactly where he’d expected. In times of stress, SG-1 went to ground in their safest refuge—Daniel’s cluttered, warmly welcoming lab cum office. Somehow, he’d managed to turn the drab, cold walls of the underground facility into friendly barriers against the strictures and demands of military life. Jack felt his achingly stiff spine relax as he closed the door behind him. 

Carter looked up from the shelter of the soft, old couch, grimacing slightly. "Sir. What did you do with them?" 

"Left ‘em with Streager. Let ‘em take it out on the heavy bag." 

She pulled her feet up onto the seat cushion, wrapping her arms around her knees. Her voice was a rhythmic chant. "Begging the colonel’s pardon, but I really don’t think this is a terrific idea." 

He shook his head, smiling ruefully. "Ah, no. A really lousy idea. But it wasn’t mine." 

"Isn’t there some… I mean, couldn’t…" Daniel’s voice trailed off. 

Jack met his gaze for a moment, then Daniel’s blue eyes slid away, shifting to stare at the coffee maker on the counter. 

"I’m really sorry, Daniel. But there isn’t, and I can’t. We’re stuck with this. And we need to give it our best shot. I just spent an interesting few minutes with Hammond… he’s under some pressure about these guys. Pall is third generation Marine, and the pet project of some Corps mucky-muck. He’s fated to do ‘great things,’ and it’s our job to see to it that he meets expectations." 

"I do not think spending time with these men will be productive, O’Neill. And I do not think it will be particularly safe to allow them to accompany us off-world." Teal’c’s mouth was turned down in his most forbidding attitude. 

"I tend to agree, Teal’c, but we really don’t have a choice. Look, these guys have a real attitude problem, but their records say they’re good. Top notch in training, then good service in the field. Pall’s got a number of commendations for service in some pretty dicey places. And Willis looks to be on the fast track to the same thing. But…" 

Daniel’s head was shaking slowly back and forth. "I don’t get it. I thought that ‘macho Marine’ thing was a stereotype. I mean, the Marines we’ve had serving here before haven’t been like these guys." 

Carter leaned toward him, reaching out to touch his hand. "Daniel, you know better than anyone that stereotypes start with reality. There really **are** Marines who are thick headed morons." She grinned. "Case in point… our new charges." 

O’Neill nodded ruefully. "And we have to find some way to get past the idiot exteriors and find the real soldiers. Always assuming there really **is** something under all that swagger. Service here isn’t like what they’ve been involved in before. We need all of our SG teams to function at the highest level possible, and right now I think these guys would be a real liability off-world. They don’t seem to understand the notion of ‘team,’ and they don’t have the mental flexibility or the open mindedness to keep themselves safe." 

"That’s the worst part of this." Daniel’s voice was soft. "I really like Captain Hindman. And I think those three are eventually going to get him killed. I mean, I’ve been… teased… before; it’s not terminal. But I’d hate to trust those men to…" 

"Teased?" Scorn dripped from Carter’s harsh voice. "Harassed, more like. I heard them yesterday, Daniel." 

His face flushed and he ducked his head, wrapping his arms around his chest. "I… um… words can’t hurt me, Sam." 

"But words can lead to other things!" She leaned forward over her knees, trying to meet his gaze. 

"So I just stay away from them." 

"Damn." Jack ran a hand through his hair. "So, Daniel, how bad was this? Because I hate to remind you, but staying away from them isn’t going to be part of the game for the next couple of weeks." 

Still keeping his gaze fixed on a small animal-shaped artifact weighting down a stack of papers on his desk, Daniel shrugged. "Not pleasant. But I can handle it, Jack." 

"Look, maybe I can get the general to…" 

"No!" Daniel’s head snapped up, eyes finally meeting Jack’s. "Jack, I’ve dealt with this sort of thing all my life. I… I’ve just gotten pretty used to not having to." His mouth twisted slightly. "I find the habits of a lifetime are pretty resilient." 

Jack held his gaze for a long moment, mouth pursing unhappily. "I don’t like those old habits, Daniel. You shouldn’t have to resurrect them. You let me know the second they go over the line. No ‘putting up with it’ to avoid making a stink. The way they treat you… and you, too, Carter… that’s a big part of what’s wrong with them. I want to **know** when they screw up. So you two keep me informed." 

Carter wrinkled her nose in disgust. "I can take care of them, Sir. Don’t worry about me." 

He smiled down at her. "I haven’t the slightest doubt, Major. But I don’t want you to have to take care of anything." 

"These men are making themselves disliked throughout the base, O’Neill." Teal’c shifted restlessly against the wall. "Nurse Elden was weeping after Lieutenant Willis completed his physical. Colonel Pall was excessively harsh with Airman Tailor when she erred in the completion of an errand. The workers in the commissary retreat to the back area, away from the counter, when Lieutenants Everett and Willis approach." 

"Yeah, that’s another issue. We need to straighten that sort of thing out ASAP. This place can be difficult at the best of times; we start having excessive turnover in support positions and we’ve got a **big** problem." 

Jack lowered himself into the chair Daniel cleared for him. For a moment he sat, planning. 

"Okay, here’s the drill. We’re stood down tomorrow, thank God. Monday, physical conditioning first thing in the morning… Wipe that grimace off your face, Dannyboy. I’ll be taking attendance. Then we’re gonna have some nice little tactical planning sessions. Daniel, before Monday, could you mock up a couple of mission briefings for me? Carter, put your head together with his and add some of your patented techy twists. I want to push them hard, so give me some nice contradictory stuff and some juicy ethical dilemmas, okay?" 

Daniel’s grim mouth softened, then actually quirked into an anticipatory little smile. Carter nodded, grinning up at O’Neill, eyes beginning to glint with conspiratorial malice. 

"In the afternoon, hand-to-hand. Daniel, you’ve got your slot with Streager, right?" 

"Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays at one, if we’re on base." 

"Right. Well, no way am I letting them loose on you, so I’ll schedule the rest of us at fourteen hundred. You can stay if you want, Daniel, but **do not** let them provoke you into stepping onto that mat with them, right? 

Daniel nodded without the slightest suggestion of reluctance. Jack smiled at him, satisfied. Daniel’d long ago realized that this was one arena in which he was never going to be competitive with the soldiers on his team. 

"Right. Tuesday morning, shooting. Sims and firing range. Then in the afternoon, more tactical. This time, let’s give them some disaster situations. Carter? Daniel?" 

They exchanged conspiratorial glances, then nodded. 

"Okay. Now, in all your spare time…" He grinned at the ironic grimaces directed his way. "I’d like all of you to do some judicious asking around. Take notes, but don’t raise a ruckus. Let’s get a real record of the kinds of trouble those three are spreading through the mountain. Come Wednesday, I want the book on them, all right?" 

Three firm nods answered him. Jack smiled gently. They all looked much better, especially Daniel. Nothing like having a plan… 

<<<<<>>>>>

Teal’c watched carefully as Daniel Jackson repeatedly lifted the heavy weight bar. The young scholar’s body was slicked with sweat; they’d been going through the routine sequence of pieces of weight apparatus for forty minutes now, accompanied by the rest of SG-1 and the Marine team. Teal’c himself was pleasantly aware of the raised respiratory rate and higher internal heat that resulted from working the muscles of his body. 

"Hey, wuss! Try this!" Willis was hefting a dumbbell, carrying an additional weight donut beyond those the archaeologist had left when he finished with the equipment. He lofted it over his head repeatedly. "Ah, but we wouldn’t want you to break one of your pretty fingernails, would we?" 

Daniel Jackson’s mouth tightened, but he kept his eyes fixed on the barbell gripped in his hands. Teal’c nodded approvingly, smiling slightly down into the other man’s tense face. Then he glanced quickly across the room, noting that O’Neill and Major Carter had completed their programs and left the gymnasium. Thus the rude behavior from the two lieutenants. Colonel Pall and Captain Hindman were studiously ignoring the other half of their team as they spotted each other on the weight and resistance equipment. 

The laughter and insulting commentary continued as Daniel Jackson completed his repetitions on the barbell. 

"Let us alter the sequence of our workout, Daniel Jackson." Teal’c kept his voice very low. The archaeologist’s strong brows arched, but he nodded acquiescence. He sat up on the bench, accepted the towel Teal’c offered and, wiping the perspiration from his face, followed as Teal’c strode toward the racked dumbbells. 

Without glancing at the smirking Marines, Teal’c removed one of the prepared weights and unscrewed the locks on the ends of the bar. He removed the small lead weights, then replaced them with a pair of the much heavier donuts meant for use on the large barbells. Each single weight was equivalent to the three small weights Willis had at each end of his dumbbells. Deliberately, Teal’c added another large donut to each end. 

The taunting from the Marines died away. 

Teal’c added one more weighted round to each end of his super-dumbbell and replaced the weight locks. He set the heavy object gently on the floor, and repeated his preparations with a second dumbbell. Then he casually picked up his first creation with his free hand, and began hefting the weights, easily lifting them overhead, out to the side. He flexed and lifted for several minutes, moving easily and without strain, never glancing at the slack-jawed Marines. He was conscious of the man standing carefully in the correct ‘spotting’ position. One glance showed him the expression of suppressed amusement on Daniel Jackson’s face. He allowed his own mouth to soften into a small conspiratorial smile, then firmly forced it back into its usual indifferent neutrality. 

After finishing his lifting routine, he casually placed the over-weighted dumbbells back on the rack and gestured toward the leg lifting device. 

As Daniel Jackson accompanied him toward the apparatus, he said softly, "You do know how completely worthless I was as a spotter, don’t you? If you’d dropped one of those monsters, and I’d tried to catch it, it would have taken me right through the floor." 

Teal’c glanced down into blue eyes sparkling with laughter. He arched an eyebrow and cocked his head. "Then it is quite fortunate that I did not drop them, Daniel Jackson." 

This time the archaeologist gave in to the laughter. Just for a moment, but long enough. The two Marines had been utterly silent; at the sound of the choke of laughter, low grumblings arose from the region of the dumbbell rack. 

As Teal’c assisted Daniel Jackson in setting the weight level and waited for the smaller man to slide into the machine, he glanced over toward the two Marines. He shook his head slightly in disapproval. The _felniks_ were gripping the bars of the racked dumbbells, blustering to each other about their prowess with the weights. He was quite certain that they would not be able to handle the weights without inflicting harm on themselves; surely they were as wise. 

For a moment, he mentally wrestled with his better self. In the end, he allowed mischief to win. He would allow them to suffer the consequences of their arrogance. 

Casting a final assessing glance over the machine to assure himself that Daniel Jackson was in no danger of injury, he deliberately turned and stared at the two lieutenants. Willis was shifting his hand, gripping and releasing, searching for the best position from which to attempt to lift one of the large dumbbells. Everett had two hands wrapped around the bar of the other implement. 

Teal’c raised his voice. "I do not think that you should attempt to lift such heavy weights." 

"Oh, God, Teal’c." There was scandalized laughter in Daniel Jackson’s quiet voice. "Red cape to a bull!" 

Teal’c turned back to the archaeologist, eyebrow lifting in query. "I see no bull, Daniel Jackson." 

The grin on the smaller man’s face was wicked. "You know what I mean, Teal’c. I saw you watching the bullfights on cable. And I see at least **two** really stupid bulls in this room." 

His words were accompanied by a squeal of pain from Everett. Teal’c placed a hand on Daniel Jackson’s shoulder, urging him to allow his legs to rest, and turned back to face the two Marines. He was aware of his own now still partner leaning forward to look around his own body. 

Everett was sprawled on the hard wood of the floor, one of the super-dumbbells rolling slowly away from him to rest against the wall. He was clutching his left arm and rocking with pain. 

"Shit, shit, shit!" 

Willis squatted next to him, prudently leaving the other dumbbell on the rack. "Damn, Everett. What the hell did you do?" 

"Just lifted that fuckin’ thing off the rack! Feels like it ripped my hand off!" His voice was high and stressed, and he continued to rock, cradling the offended arm. "I think the goddamn thing broke my fuckin’ wrist!" 

Daniel Jackson slid out of the leg machine and touched Teal’c on the shoulder. "I’ll call Janet." 

Teal’c nodded, smiling slightly at the amusement still brightening his friend’s voice. He moved slowly toward the afflicted Marine, face as forbidding as he could manage. Peripherally, he was aware of the Marine colonel and captain joining the gathering around the dumbbells. 

"Everett, you moron! What the hell made you think you could handle something like that?" Hindman’s voice dripped exasperation. "You wanna be grounded for the next month?" 

Teal’c spoke with all of the grave confidence of more than a century of life. "I informed you that you should not attempt to lift such a heavy object, Lieutenant Everett." He met the injured man’s offended glare with calm superiority. "Surely you were aware that it was beyond your capabilities."

Everett sputtered with indignation, stuttering ineffectually. 

"Shut up, Everett." Pall’s voice was harsh. "Did someone… ?" 

"Janet’s on the way." Daniel Jackson’s stepped up beside Teal’c. 

"Goddam it, that fuckin’ spook did this on purpose!" 

Teal’c lifted an eyebrow, gazing down at the outraged lieutenant. "I did not, Everett. I exercised at a level appropriate for my abilities. And I attempted to prevent you from pursuing a most unwise course of action." 

"You can’t blame Teal’c for your own lack of sense," Daniel Jackson added softly. Teal’c felt the smaller man move slightly closer to his side. 

"Keep your runny nose to yourself, you useless geek. What the hell do you have to do with this? It was your freaky buddy, there…" Everett’s voice choked off as he searched for an epithet filthy enough to throw at Teal’c. 

Daniel Jackson’s smile spread slowly across his smooth face. "What do I have to do with this? Well, from here it looks like, unlike you, I managed to complete my conditioning cycle without disabling myself." 

"You…!" Everett unwisely attempted to push himself to his feet, squealing with anguish as he dropped his injured arm and shoved against the floor. "Owowowowow Shit!" 

"That’s enough!" Teal’c nodded respectfully toward the small woman whose voice had sliced through Everett’s self pity. She returned the courtesy, then moved past him to drop to the floor beside the injured man. 

"Clear out, gentlemen. My people and I will deal with this. Teal’c, Daniel, you stay and tell me what happened." 

Willis objected. "Why do you need to hear from them? I can tell you…" 

"Don’t argue with me, Lieutenant Willis. Out." 

Still objecting, he allowed Hindman to drag him from the workout room. Pall cast one baleful look at Teal’c, then pivoted and followed his two men. 

"So, Teal’c. Just what happened here." 

"That freak made me… Yow!"

"Sorry, Lieutenant Everett. Teal’c?" 

Teal’c met her eyes, appreciating the canny understanding of her expression. 

"The lieutenant was… unwise in his weight exercises." 

"He thought he could lift Teal’c’s weights." 

Her eyes rounded. She turned back to look at her patient. "You did? Oh, my." 

Shaking her head in disbelief, she carefully palpated the injured wrist. 

Teal’c lifted his chin in satisfaction. For just a moment, he placed his hand on Daniel Jackson’s back. The smaller man looked up and smiled. 

Oh, my, indeed. 

He accompanied Daniel Jackson from the gymnasium, passing the three Marines in the hallway. As they walked toward the showers, Teal’c glanced back over his shoulder, meeting the hot gaze of Lieutenant Willis. Reflexively, he repositioned himself, shielding his companion’s body from the livid anger of the Marine. 

This one would bear watching. 

<<<<>>>>

Hindman reached out to grab Willis by the shoulder. "Hold on a minute, Lieutenant. We need a few words before we go in there." 

Willis shrugged his hand off. "What’s to talk about, Captain? It’s hand-to-hand. We’re gonna make those damned flyboys look like the schmucks they are. Can’t say I’m unhappy about the chance to get a little physical with Carter, I’ll tell you!" 

Mentally cursing, Hindman grabbed him again. "Goddam it, Willis. Haven’t you caught on yet? I’m telling you, you’re **not** going to have everything your way in there. And you try it on with **Major** Carter, and you may lose more than a few percentage points off the top of that amazing Technicolor ego you keep flashing around!" 

"Captain, I’m sure the lieutenant can take care of himself. And I doubt Major Carter will prove to be a significant problem." 

"Sir…" 

"That’s enough, Captain. You’re about to make us late for this workout, and Marines are **not** late. Get your ass through that door."

Hindman sighed deeply, dropping his head to stare at the floor for a long moment. This was going to be a blood bath, one way or another. 

Drawing another deep breath, he followed the other two through the door into the workout room. There was a session in progress. His shoulders tightened as he recognized the broad shoulders and neatly barbered head of Daniel Jackson. He’d obviously been working for a while; he was panting and perspiring, circling slowly around Sergeant Streager. 

Willis hooted in delight. "Hey, it’s Cinderella! Hit ‘im with your purse, sweetie!" 

Jackson’s head jerked slightly; his brow furrowed, and the already high color in his cheeks deepened. 

"Eyes on me, Daniel!" Streager’s voice cracked with command. "He’s all mouth; your problem is less than twelve inches away. Don’t let messy-butt half across the room distract you!" His hand shot out, reaching for the other man’s face. Jackson blocked the hand with his arm, ducked quickly to the side and backpedaled. Abruptly, he swept close, reaching for the bigger man’s shoulder and hooking an ankle around Streager’s leg. A brief tussle, and the instructorended up hitting the mat on his back. 

"Not bad, Doctor J. But you’ve got to give more of your attention to the legs, and make sure you hit the ankle. Worry about the arms after you’ve got me on the way down. But not bad at all." Streager reached out to grasp the archaeologist’s offered hand, pulling himself to his feet. "Okay, that’s enough for now. I’ve got these bozos to pummel for an hour or so." He patted Daniel’s shoulder. "I’ll see you again Wednesday." 

"Hey! Special treatment for the geek? I been waiting two days to see what he’s got!" 

"Shut up, Willis!" O’Neill, trailed by Carter and Teal’c, strode through the door. "Some things work differently for Daniel. You **don’t** have a say." 

"Quiet, Lieutenant Willis!" Colonel Pall snapped over his shoulder. "You’re so fond of the kid, O’Neill… why don’t you let him play with the big boys?" 

O’Neill turned slowly to face Pall, eyes hard and challenging. "Daniel’s as big a ‘boy’ as you’ve met, **Colonel** Pall. But the physical rules are different for him. He gets special training, and he **doesn’t** go face to face with yahoos like Willis. Daniel’s most important contributions come from what’s between his ears, not what’s holding his bones together. We don’t need to turn him into a mindless assault machine." Pall’s pale skin reddened at the unmistakable implication. "We just need him to know how to defend himself the best he can. **We** do the aggressive stuff, so **he** can do the brain stuff. Got it?" 

"Oh, I got it all right. And I suppose the same goes for the girl. Another ‘brain’ that needs baby sitting."

Hindman winced and glanced at the major. Her hands were tightly fisted, her jaw clenched. Unlike Willis, he was familiar with Carter’s abilities. Suddenly, he hoped she **would** take him on. His ego could use the… massage. 

"Ah, well you see, Carter’s kind of an original. She’s a brain, but she really likes taking testosterone poisoned jerks apart. She’s with us." 

Panting, Doctor Jackson moved to stand beside O’Neill. He smiled slightly and nodded a greeting in Hindman’s direction, pointedly ignoring the other two Marines. 

"Hey, Daniel. Looked good." Carter patted the man’s sweaty chest. 

Jackson grimaced ruefully. "I’m never going to get good at this stuff, Sam." 

She nudged him with her shoulder. "You think too much. Just shut down your brain and aim for the eyes and the goolies." 

Glancing at Streager, who was shielding his groin, face twisted into an expression of mock horror, he sputtered with laughter. "That’s your advice? You willing to let me practice on you?" 

"I’m sure it says somewhere that the colonel is the one obliged to do that." 

"Oh, thanks, Carter. Daniel, you staying?" At the archaeologist’s nod, he gestured toward the benches along the side. "Just make sure you do some stretching while you cool down. One sprained limb is enough for our merry little band." 

<<<<<>>>>>

Sergeant Streager strode slowly along the edge of the workout mat, carefully watching as the three pairs sparred, more or less following the sequence he’d dictated. Teal’c and O’Neill had done this together hundreds of times. Each knew the style of the other. He should split them—make each of them take on a new partner, just to juice them up a bit. They’d both faced off against Carter with nearly as much frequency. He needed to give some thought to what would best pique them into raising the bar a notch or two. 

Of course, Teal’c was scaling back pretty radically. He had to when dealing with any of his partners. Strangely enough, thanks to his firm control, he was the best of the three at helping with Daniel’s training. 

Streager grinned to himself. Hisfavorite partner for Teal’c was… himself. One of these days, he was going to win one of those bouts, one way or another. 

Carter and Hindman were a good match. They respected each other, but had rarely faced off in hand-to-hand. Their sparring accomplished exactly what it was supposed to… each got a good workout and a few surprises, and each learned some new things. 

Then there was his final pair. Pall and Willis. Commander and subordinate or not, for them this was pure competition. 

"Willis! This is an exercise, not the world championships! Back off. You’ll get your chance. Follow the sequence!" 

The lieutenant grimaced, but scaled down for the moment. He was palpably frustrated by his inability to breach the colonel’s defenses. Streager frowned. Willis was very good, but he was fazed as much by Pall’s greater size as his skill, which wasn’t particularly superior, but gave him just enough edge to keep the younger man in his place. They were far too alike in style to learn anything from each other. He should rematch them. 

"C’mon, Teal’c. Push him. He’s not made of glass." He grinned at O’Neill’s nasty glance. "Buck up, Colonel. He won’t break you." 

Streager mentally scolded himself for not taking the obvious step. O’Neill and Pall could really benefit from a few sessions together, and he was guiltily eager to see Willis attempt to bully Teal’c. Unfortunately, he was afraid the injury toll would deprive the SGC of several important members of its field teams. 

"Goddam it!" Carter stepped sharply away from her sparring partner, spinning to face the Marine pair to her right. "The next time that hand ‘accidentally’ finds its way to someplace it doesn’t belong, you’re not getting it back!" 

Willis and Pall straightened and stepped apart. 

"C’mon, Carter," Willis smirked. "You can’t claim you wouldn’t like a little more… physical contact. Considering your choices, you’re probably getting a bit desperate." 

Hastily, Streager stepped between the Lieutenant and the wall of bodies he faced. Teal’c and O’Neill had moved to either side of their teammate. A soft murmur accompanied the arrival of the fourth member of SG-1. Jackson, white towel dangling from his fingers, slipped into the line, tucked close behind O’Neill’s right shoulder.

"Lieutenant Willis, would you care to rephrase that?" O’Neill’s voice was rock hard. "In a way that isn’t going to earn you a month cleaning the toilets with a kiddy toothbrush?" 

Willis bowed mockingly in Major Carter’s direction. " **So** sorry, Major Carter, **Sir**." 

Carter moved as if to step closer to the Marine. 

"Okay, now. Back off." Streager stretched his hands toward the two combatants. This was not the face-off he’d envisioned. 

"I don’t think so, Sergeant." Carter’s voice was obsidian-sharp, implacable. "This stupid asshole has been pushing since the day he slimed his way onto this base. I think it’s time to settle a few things." 

"Doctor Jackson, back on the bench. You’re finished for the day. And Willis, I think you’ve forgotten a few things about command structure." The archaeologist didn’t move, and Willis’s eyes didn’t even flicker in Streager’s direction. Damn. When had he lost control of this situation? 

"No Air Force bimbo commands a Marine, Streager. If Airhead Barbie here thinks different, let her show me." 

"Mister, you are begging for some very nasty consequences!" O’Neill snapped coldly. 

"I **said** back off, Lieutenant Willis. Major Carter doesn’t have to prove a damned thing to you." Streager turned to face the Marine, both hands shoving him firmly backward. "And this arena does not exist for the purpose of grudge dog fights. **I** say what goes on here, and I say you **back off**." 

Without taking his eyes off Willis’s pugnacious face, O’Neill reached back to grip Jackson’s shoulder. "Go sit, Daniel. I think Carter can deal with this." 

Willis sneered. "Yeah, right… Long as she’s got her Special Ops boss and his pet freak running interference, she can handle this. Give it up, O’Neill." 

"Willis, enough!" Harsh disapproval colored Pall’s voice. 

"That’s **Colonel** O’Neill, and if you forget it again, you are **so** on report." O’Neill glanced quickly toward Streager. "Sergeant, I really think we need to get thissettled, and better here than out in the corridors or the commissary." Again locking gazes with the Marine, he smiled grimly. "You really want to do this, Willis? And before you answer, let me warn you that you have **no** idea what you’re getting into. You’ve got one chance to back down." 

Streager’s lips twitched. Oh, yeah. Willis’d back down. If someone gave him a common sense transplant. He nodded sharply, resigned. O’Neill was right. There **would** be a confrontation between these two. Better here, where he could make sure there were no serious injuries. 

Nodding to O’Neill, he jerked his head toward the bench, relaxing slightly when Jackson finally moved slowly back to his former observational position. After a long moment, Teal’c, Hindman, and Pall trailed after the archaeologist, Teal’c carefully keeping his body between Pall and Jackson. 

Streager grasped Willis’s shoulder and tugged him toward the edge of the mat; O’Neill mirrored his actions with Carter. 

"All right, you two. Hand-to-hand. No rules except that you are **not** to seriously injure each other. I’ll stop you if I decide you’re not taking care. Two falls out of three. And when I say it’s finished, it’s **finished**. For good. Got it?" 

Carter nodded sharply; Willis shrugged Streager’s hands off his shoulders and grinned belligerently across at the Major. 

"Oh, yeah. I won’t hurt her much. Don’t really wanna **hurt** her." 

Streager shook his head. "You really are stupid as a floor mat, aren’t you? Well, you can’t say you haven’t been adequately warned." 

He joined O’Neill just off the edge of the mat, eyes flicking back and forth between the combatants. Carter was quivering with fury; Willis was loose and arrogant, hands on hips, gaze sliding up and down his opponent’s body. 

"All right, you both ready?" Two nods. "Then let the ‘Idiots’ Olympics’ begin." 

The combatants moved slowly to the center of the mat, circling each other, assessing. Streager nodded silently. 

Like the veteran fighter she was, Carter had put the lid on her anger, letting her training and experience take over her movements. She was as skilled at this activity as any soldier on base, completely comfortable against even the largest and strongest of opponents. Winor lose, she’d acquit herself well. And Streager didn’t think she was going to lose. 

Willis, on the other hand, was looking sloppy and over-confident. Again, exactly what Streager had expected. It had obviously never occurred to him that he might lose this confrontation. He was bouncing a little, hopping rhythmically—predictably—from foot to foot and flicking taunting little hand strikes in Carter’s direction. But he hadn’t touched her; she’d easily dodged every salvo, shifting slightly to allow the man’s hands to pass by without making contact. 

And of course, his mouth hadn’t let up for a second, taunting, insulting, making highly improper suggestions and offers. Carter hadn’t flicked an eyelash. Nor had she said a word. Her eyes were fixed on his shoulders and upper body, assessing, judging, planning. Her own body moved only slightly, unpredictably. 

He was dead meat. One feint, the sweeping flight of her leg against the back of his supporting ankle, and a sharp shove against his shoulder, and he hit the mat flat on his back. 

Coolly, she stepped back, giving him time to get back to his feet. 

"First fall goes to Carter," O’Neill announced. "Took, what, ten seconds? Ready to rethink this, Willis?" 

Willis saved his glare for his opponent. Hauling himself to his feet, he advanced on the woman. There was no more blabber. His smirking provocation had become angry determination. 

This round was much more protracted. He attacked furiously, using a motley of aggressive techniques… punches, kicks, hand-strikes. And still failed to make more than the most rudimentary of contact. She ducked, blocked and dodged. And delivered her own jabs and kicks, many of which were going to leave healthy bruises on his body. She kept her profile low, again and again sneaking under and around his increasingly sloppy guard. 

His anger and frustration progressively eroded the quality of his technique. His face was red, mouth twisted in a grimace of fury. Streager shook his head in disgust. The man was defeating himself. His own mental list of issues to address in Willis’s training was growing depressingly long. Starting with anger management. Oh, and the hazards of underestimating your opponent. 

"C’mon, Carter. There’s a game on tonight; don’t keep us here all afternoon. Finish him off, will ya?" 

Streager smiled at O’Neill’s sarcasm. He was right; the major was playing with her opponent, dragging out his humiliation. Surprisingly, the other two Marines hadn’t uttered a sound. 

"I’m with the colonel, Major Carter. I think he’s got the message." 

He was sure he heard a growl from the embattled Marine. Certainly, Willis stepped up the pace of his assault. Unfortunately, his determination wasn’t enough to overcome the anger-induced degradation in the quality of his moves. 

Particularly his defense. Carter ducked every attack, obviously never seriously challenged. Then deliberately, precisely, she balanced on her flexed left leg, her right foot darting out to impact just hard enough with his unguarded crotch. As he squealed and folded over his groin, she allowed her follow-through to carry her right leg behind his and, just as deliberately, brought her right arm up under his chin, flipping him over to land again on his back. 

It was a thing of beauty. 

For a moment, the only sound in the room was Willis’s whistling breath. Then a soft, contemplative voice murmured, "…Go for the goolies…" 

Panting slightly, Carter flashed a grin at her young team mate. O’Neill was clapping him on the back. 

"Good as anything Streager can teach you, Danny." The colonel waved a congratulatory hand toward Carter. "Nice job, Carter. Now… can we go? I got things to do." 

Streager gestured invitingly toward the showers. "All done, Sir. Colonel Pall, Captain Hindman, you too. I’ll see to mutt-head, here. I doubt he’s seriously hurt." 

"He’s not." Major Carter accepted the white towel from Doctor Jackson, wiping her glowing face. "I was careful; he’s smarting, but you won’t need Janet." 

Without sparing a backward glance for the man curled on the mat, she strode out of the room, followed by the rest of her team. 

Streager knelt beside Willis, tilting his chin up to check for damage. Just as she’d said, her hit had been precisely controlled. He hadn’t even bitten his tongue. Obviously. 

"Sonofabitch! Stupid cunt! Goddam bi…" 

"Shut up, Willis. Don’t open your mouth until you can do it without earning yourself a court martial. " Streager kept his voice hard, allowing no hint of his amusement to surface. "You’re not hurt anywhere but your stupid pride. And if you haven’t learned anything from this, you’re a lost cause. Now straighten up and walk it off. Then get off to the showers. Oh, and visit Fraiser just to make sure. Unlike you, Major Carter really knows what she’s doing, so I doubt you’ve picked up anything more than a few embarrassing bruises." 

The Marine rolled slowly to his knees, then lurched to his feet. Streager grabbed his shoulder as the other man attempted to stagger after SG-1. 

"Lieutenant, before you do something else idiotic, take a piece of advice." He gestured sharply toward the other two Marines, pointing firmly toward the showers. "Let this end **now**. You are out of your league; you take on those four, and you will **not** win. The best you’ll be able to hope for is reassignment. That’s always assuming you’re not dead or in the brig. For once in your life take your brain out of mothballs and do the smart thing." 

Willis shook him off, snarling angrily. "When I want advice from you, **Sergeant** , I’ll be sure to ask for it. 

Streager shook his head sadly as he watched the man’s rigid back disappear through the door to the shower room. This had solved nothing, other than Major Carter’s growing fury. Willis was now angry, belligerent **and** humiliated. A dangerous combination. 

<<<<<>>>>>

"Goddamned fuckin’ sonofabitch flyboy! How the hell do they figure **he** should command a unit of **Marines**!" Willis jabbed his fork into his apparently innocent O’Malley’s Special T-Bone, sawing viciously with his steak knife. 

"Yeah. How the fuckin’ **hell.** " Everett’s echo was, as always, predictable. Where his idol led, he followed. He was rather frustrated in his attempt to mimic the sawing by his wrapped slightly sprained wrist. 

"Keep your voices down, you idiots." Hindman shook his head, scowling at the junior officers. "You get yourself tossed out of here for unruly conduct, and Hammond will be happy to drop the ceiling on you." 

"Seems to me he’s looking for an opportunity to do that, anyway, Captain." 

"Look, you guys, O’Neill’s good. And the general just doesn’t want you to get yourselves or anyone else killed. You’ve never stepped foot through the Gate. All the service experience you may have is never going to prepare you for Gate travel. If you’d just…" 

Hindman felt his voice trail off in response to twin glares. If it had been possible, his heart would have sunk even further. Arrogant, intolerant… morons. Once again, he desperately wished that at least **one** of the other members of the old SG-3 had chosen to stay after the disgrace of their commanding officer. 

"Beggin’ the captain’s pardon, **Sir** , but it’s just not right to put an Air Force officer in charge of a Marine unit. O’Neill’s got no business pushing us and Colonel Pall around.And the rest of them…! Shit, a woman, f’r God’s sake! What the hell’s a woman doing on a combat team!" 

"What the **hell** …!" 

Hindman’s mouth twitched. "She took you." 

Willis’s pale skin flushed with fury. "Luck! And I was tired—we’d been at it in the weight room for an hour before she sashayed that tight little butt into the gym. And I was taking it easy—she’s a **girl** , f’r God’s sake. How was I supposed to know she was a ringer?" 

"Yeah! How?" 

‘Well, you might have actually **read** the mission reports you were assigned,’ Hindman thought sourly. Aloud, he said, " **Major** you moron. If you can’t get that little fact straight, **I’ll** be putting you on report myself. And you should have noticed that none of them was particularly concerned about her taking you on. She’s a pro, Willis, with four years of field experience." 

Willis spared him a hot glare, then turned back to his assault on the steak. 

"And Jackson! Not just a civilian, but I’d bet my paycheck he’s a fag. No guy’s that pretty." 

"Not a **real** guy…" 

"How the fuck has he stayed alive all this time? I figure that alien must be usin’ him. Only reason I can think of they’d keep him around." 

"Yeah. Man, that guy creeps me out!" 

Hindman felt his eyebrows climb. They really **hadn’t** read those mission files. 

"Ah, guys… Doctor Jackson’s survived four years on a front line team. Maybe you should consider the possibility that you’re wrong about him. And I wouldn’t make that particular suggestion anywhere it’s likely to get back to Teal’c." 

Willis now gave him his full attention--the kind of attention he’d direct toward a talking frog. 

"You know, Hindman, I’m beginning to wonder a bit about you. Seems to me you’ve been a bit infected by flyboy-mush. Getting a bit soft, here?" 

"Yeah, looks kind of mushy to me." 

Hindman tightened his lips. Christ, how the hell did he rate getting stuck with these idiots? 

"That’s **Captain** Hindman, Lieutenant. And you’d better not forget it again." He drew a deep breath. "Look, you guys. I’ve got a hell of a stake in this. I’ve got to depend on you to keep me alive, and you’re not looking like a smart bet, here. You **have** to catch on to the fact that you’ve got a hell of a lot to learn! And that O’Neill and his team are the best bet to teach it to you." 

Willis gritted his teeth and leaned over the table toward Hindman. "Look, **Captain** Hindman, you may be a fuckin’ lap dog for Colonel His Majesty Jack O’Neill, but don’t drag us with you. There is no way in hell any of those freaks can show us **anything**! We’re the best of the best, and I’m sick to death of having to let some jumped-up **airhead** haul me around on a leash!" 

Hindman leaned back and examined the livid face across the table. "Well, you might just want to reconsider, Willis. Maybe give it some thought tonight while you’re trying to find a comfortable position for your… goolies. Sam Carter can take you any day of the year. ‘Best of the best’ at the Marine academy doesn’t mean shit around here. All anybody cares about here is how you do your job. And for field teams like us, ‘not doing your job’ pretty much means the same thing as ‘dead.’ And pretty damned quickly. That’s a damned hard way to learn the lessons you’re not willing to learn by more conventional means." He held Willis’s furious eyes for a long moment. "Think about it. While you’re… soaking your assets." 

<<<<<>>>>>

Sam carefully checked her weapon, then slid the clip into position. The simulations had been fun. She’d been aware of Willis’s hot glare tracking every move she made through the sequence. At least he wasn’t trying it on with her any more. She’d nipped his scores by a point or two consistently. He’d been fully occupied trying to close the gap. He **was** good, but his reflexes, conditioned via simulation, couldn’t match her field-trained reactions. 

She smiled fondly at the man standing beside her, checking his own weapon. Good old Daniel. He never changed. He just had a real problem pulling the trigger when his target had a face. He never did very well on the sims unless someone rigged the silhouetted targets with glowing eyes. Then he got every one. 

Fortunately, these days when the battle was real he lost that instinctive reluctance. He’d become a dependable and consistent member of their team, even in combat situations. The colonel, and the general when consulted, just tossed out his sims scores. 

Their current companions weren’t so forgiving. Daniel had suffered a lot of verbal abuse through the previous hour. His head was down, shoulders tight. He’d never responded, but that didn’t mean the vicious jibes didn’t register. She really wished the two colonels hadn’t been appropriated for a meeting with General Hammond and Major Davis. They’d have put a lid on the arrogant asshole. At least, Colonel O’Neill would. Pall would probably urge the bastard on. 

Daniel’s eyes flicked up to meet hers, and he favored her with a rueful smile. 

"You know they’re full of it, right?" 

He grimaced, then dropped his gaze back down to the M-9, sliding in the full clip and chambering a round before pulling it out and adding a new fifteenth bullet. "Yeah. I just… I’m not used to this any more, I guess. Kind of lost the thick skin." 

The magazine snicked back into position. He raised his eyes again, and she was surprised to recognize real anger in their blue depths. "Who decided that big, strong and stupid was a good role model? All my life, I’ve tiptoed around guys like them. I always took it so much for granted… until now. A few years away from their kind of crass arrogance has given me a bit of perspective, I guess. It just shouldn’t be like this." 

She shrugged, wrinkling her nose. "I have to agree, but I doubt the world out there is going to change much in the near future." 

"Hey, Princess! Here’s something for you to whine about!" Willis stepped to the firing line, aimed at the bullseye target thirty meters down the range, and emptied his clip. 

Corporal Kumamoto hauled the target in and examined the pattern of perforations. "Sixteen hits, ten for ten, three for eight, two for six, one for four. One-forty of one-sixty, Sir." 

Pulling the ear protectors off his head, Willis blew smugly across the muzzle of his gun, smirking across at Daniel. 

"Not bad, Lieutenant," Sam said. 

She positioned her protectors over her ears, took her place at the line, and emptied her own clip. 

"Sixteen hits, eleven for ten, two for eight, one for six, two for four. One-forty of one-sixty, Major Carter." 

She glanced across at the Marine, shrugging and smiling. 

His mouth quirked in irritation, and he stepped quickly back to the line, reloaded gun poised. Again, he fired off the clip. 

"Sixteen hits, eleven for ten, three for eight, two for six. One-forty-eight of one-sixty." 

Willis hooted and jerked the covers off his ears. He shot Sam a triumphant look, then looked beyond her to Daniel, who had watched the exchanges grimly. "Come on, sweetie. I’m sure you can hang on to it. It doesn’t kick **that** much. Major Carter will kiss it better." 

Sam looked up quickly, just in time to intercept the vivid fury in Daniel’s eyes as he shot a brief glance across at the Marine. Oh, boy. Did lasers come in blue? 

Daniel carefully positioned the cups over his ears. Slowly, he moved to the line and pulled the protective goggles down over his eyes. He stood for a moment, gaze fixed on the target thirty meters away. He took several deep, even breaths, then brought the M-9 up. His stance was textbook perfect—feet shoulder width apart, body four-square to the target, gun gripped in two extended hands. 

Sam felt a bubble of delight squirm up from her gut. Oh, she’d seen this before. One of Daniel’s best tricks. Lasers, indeed. As in laser sights. And a degree of concentration only dreamed of by most men. Poor Willis. Oh, yeah. 

Still acting with slow deliberation, Daniel fired off sixteen perfectly spaced shots. With each sharp report, the gun jerked slightly upward. It was immediately brought back into true alignment. His face remained perfectly calm, eyes unflinchingly fixed on the distant target. 

Clip emptied, he stepped smoothly back from the line and pulled the devices off his ears. Willis was scowling at him in puzzlement. 

Kumamoto pulled the target in and examined it. Then, after making sure no one was preparing to shoot, he stepped into the range and jogged to the backstop behind the targets, which he also examined. Finally, shaking his head, he walked up to Daniel and handed him the target. It had only a single hole, somewhat larger than these rounds usually left. Dead in the center of the bullseye. 

"Sixteen hits, Doctor Jackson. All for ten. One-sixty of one-sixty. I’d keep that if I were you." 

Daniel examined the paper target, then lifted his gaze to meet Willis’s incredulous eyes. Sam almost laughed out loud. Innocence personified. Sweet, gentle smile, wide, bright blue eyes. Butter wouldn’t melt. 

With a small nod to Sam, he picked up his sidearm, cleared it, and walked out of the range. 

<<<<<>>>>>

Shaking his head slightly, George Hammond allowed his gaze to slide down one side of the table and back up the other. He was feeling a bit like volleyball net—the only protective barrier between two aggressive rivals. 

To his right, Colonel O’Neill slouched back in his seat, contemplating the men across from him with lazy challenge. Beyond, his own team occupied the remaining three chairs along that side of the table. 

To Hammond’s left, a glowering Colonel Pall answered O’Neill’s insolent stare, stiffly upright, hands folded precisely. Beside him, Captain Hindman, hands also folded, was attempting to avoid meeting anyone else’s eyes. Oddly, he seemed to be fighting the urge to grin. And at the far end, sullenly shifting their glares among the three more junior members of SG-1, sat Lieutenants Everett and Willis. No desire to smile there. 

Hammond sighed. This had been the only thing he’d been able to think of—the only hope of turning those three idiots into useful members of the SGC. Apparently the ploy had failed. 

"Colonel O’Neill, you’ve had a few days with Colonel Pall and his team. Want to give me your conclusions?" 

O’Neill stared into Pall’s face, then leaned forward to gaze down at Everett and Willis. "Well, Sir. You’ve seen the reports." 

"I have, but I’d like to hear your assessments, Colonel." 

O’Neill’s mouth tightened. "We … accompanied SG-3 through a number of exercises—tactical and physical. I have to say that I’m not very impressed. In the ten tactical exercises we set for them, Colonel Pall’s command decisions resulted in a seventy percent abject failure rate—he got his team and those he was protecting killed; he lost whatever commodity he was supposed to secure for the base. They failed to successfully complete **any** mission. In my judgment, this team would be an albatross around the SGC’s neck. Actually, I don’t suppose it will matter for long; they wouldn’t survive their first encounter with a truly capable and aggressive opponent." 

Pall shifted angrily. "Those tactical simulations were absurd. If you’d given us **realistic** scenarios, the results would have been damned different!" 

"Actually, the scenarios were all based on real encounters SG teams have found themselves having to handle, Sir." Major Carter’s gaze was fixed on her folded hands, but there was a suggestion of a smile on her lips. "Daniel and I blocked them out from our own mission reports. Every one of them was successfully completed… at least, in the **realistic** sense." 

Pall snarled under his breath, staring fiercely at the major. She lifted her head and met his eyes boldly, the smile more than a suggestion. 

"You blew every one of them, Colonel, because you had your mind set on establishing your own superiority. When you’re fixated on showing up the other guys, you’re not paying attention to the actual goal. Forgive the cliché, but you have to keep your eyes on the prize, and sometimes getting it means groveling a bit." 

"Marines **don’t** grovel!" 

Hindman groaned softly. "Sir?" 

"Shut up, Captain. You’ve sat back for the last few days and let these three walk all over your men. You’ve got nothing to say that I want to hear!" 

"Colonel, that’s enough! I’ll decide whether there’s any discipline in order, here!" 

Hindman’s eyes squeezed shut at Pall’s indictment, then flew open at the general’s words. "General, Sir, I’d **really** like to talk to you about my assignment. When we’re finished here." 

Hammond nodded slightly. "I’d be happy to, son, right after this meeting." 

Pall flushed at the subtle reprimand. The muscles on his jaw corded as he ground his teeth. 

O’Neill flipped open one of the folders he’d tossed onto the table. "Another significant problem is the effect this bunch has been having on the support personnel of the SGC. Despite every attempt to get them to ease up, the three new members of SG-3 are continuing to antagonize anyone they deal with, from one end of the base to the other. If you can’t convince them to knock it off, Sir, you can expect a flurry of transfer requests. Most of our clerks and nursing staff, not to mention the counter workers in the commissary, avoid them at all costs." He shook his head in mock sadness. "I’m afraid our boys don’t play well with others, Sir." 

"Colonel O’Neill!" Hammond laughed inwardly, even as he admonished O’Neill for his provocative behavior. Tempting as it was to pull these particular bulldogs’ tails, it wasn’t very productive. They just got more surly and uncooperative. 

"And then there’s the physical…" O’Neill was making no attempt to smother the grin. "We had a few… problems with the physical stuff." 

"That freak set me up… !" 

"It was a stinkin’ trick…!" 

Everett and Willis spoke up at the same time, voices hot and shrill. 

"You fight the wrong battles." 

The soft voice from just beyond O’Neill’s chair halted the two tirades sharply. 

Doctor Jackson hadn’t made a sound since he’d slipped into the room and lowered himself into the seat beside O’Neill’s. He’d watched the accusations and angry responses, eyes flicking from antagonist to antagonist. He’d listened silently to the criticisms and to the Marines’ hot defenses, but had made no contribution. Now, he straightened up and lifted his eyes to stare directly into Colonel Pall’s angry gaze. 

"You fight the wrong battles," he repeated firmly. "Sam said it… your goals in the tactical scenarios were all wrong, because you’re assaulting the wrong enemy." 

His gaze shifted to Everett, dropping for a moment to inspect the white tape wrapped around the other man’s wrist. "You’re not stupid. Well, mostly. But you’re unbelievably foolish. You’re right, Everett. Teal’c **did** set you up. But the fact that you fell for it is entirely your fault. Whatever possessed you to try to lift Teal’c’s weights? There’s not another person on this base brainless enough to attempt that. What the hell does it matter if there’s someone around who can lift heavier burdens than you can? You don’t fight **Teal’c**. He’s on **your** team. And you…" His eyes slid to Willis’s face. "What do you care if Sam can take you down? What makes it such an affront to you? Except, of course, that it should make you damned glad to have her backing you up. And why should you foam at the mouth because I got a better score than you did on the firing range? What does it **matter**? You’ve got your focus on the wrong targets." 

He looked down at his hands, his quirky little smile twitching the corners of his mouth at the unintentional play onwords. "It’s a trick, Willis. It doesn’t mean anything. It doesn’t mean I’m better with a gun than you are. The sims are a lot more important, and look how I did on those." Again, he met the Marine’s fulminating stare. "It’s just that, when I really care about something, I can concentrate **really well**. And…" He shrugged in self-deprecation. "You… well, you made me pretty mad." 

Major Carter was hiding a grin behind her hand. Hammond decided a private conference with the Major was long overdue. He **really** wanted a first-hand account of that encounter on the firing range. 

"Anyway," Jackson continued, "You’ve got a lot of problems with the way you’re doing things, but that’s the core of all of them. You have to learn just who the enemy is, and stop taking your battles to the people who are on your own side. We’re not the enemy—even if we outscore you on every single test we run. It just doesn’t matter." 

O’Neill was nodding approval. "Right on the money, Daniel." He speared Pall with another fierce glare. "And until you jarheads can figure out what **does** matter, you don’t get any stamp of approval from me. General…" He swiveled his chair to face Hammond. "Recommend you send these bozos back to school and get them out of the SGC’s hair. Oh, except for Hindman. We’ll keep him and give him a real team to play with." 

Hammond leaned back slowly, troubled gaze fixed on the Marine colonel. He was tempted to simply go along with O’Neill’s assessment. Just give up on the three men as bad news. But… a lot had already been invested in them, and they **were** so good at so many things. He couldn’t shake the hope that, with just the right shock, he might be able to scare quality SG team material out of at least some of them. 

One more chance. The ultimate chance. 

"All right, here’s the deal. Colonel O’Neill, I completely understand how you and your team feel. Unfortunately, I’m beginning to agree with you. But… " He turned to meet Pall’s angry eyes. "… I want to give you and your team every chance to show that you can do this job, Colonel Pall. So, for at least a while, I’m going to continue with the original time-table." 

He reached for the stack of mission folders and slid them individually down the table, taking childish pride in his excellent aim. 

"Your two teams are scheduled fora joint off-world mission. You will depart at oh-eight-hundred, Friday, for P3Z 708." At the disclosure of the destination code, there was a small, happy murmur from just the other side of O’Neill. "Command structure remains as it has been through this exercise—Colonel O’Neill is in command. Understood, Colonel Pall?" 

Reluctantly, the Marine jerked a nod. "Yes, Sir." 

"Very good. All indications are that this will be a bit of a milk run. There are some archaeological features in which Doctor Jackson has expressed some interest, and some suggestive mineral formations that look promising. No signs of contemporary local inhabitation. There shouldn’t be any problems. 

"Colonel Pall, Lieutenants Willis and Everett… I want you all to understand that you are on probation. I’m very unhappy about the results from the last few days; this is your last chance to show me that you can do this job." Sullen nods and murmurs of "Yes, Sir," had to satisfy him. 

"And Colonel O’Neill, SG-1, I want **you** to understand that I expect you to give SG-3 a fair chance. I know you’re not happy about this, but be open minded and flexible." 

Four nods, though one was accompanied by a decidedly jaundiced glance, answered. He favored them with his own nod, caught Hindman’s eye and gestured toward his private office, then stood. "Very good. You are all on ‘stand down’ tomorrow. You depart from the Gate room on Friday, oh-eight-hundred. Dismissed." 

<<<<<>>>>>

They’d been there two days, enjoying the warmth and sunshine. So far, this place was high on the list of planets to put on the vacation list. The smooth, grassy clearing surrounding the Stargate made a comfortable, centrally located camping spot. While Daniel, supposedly protected by the two Marine lieutenants, obsessed over his wall—the only sign of civilized impact they’d originally discovered—the rest of them had been exploring and sampling the various parts of the plateau. Carter had found some very promising mineral deposits down at the base of the goblet’s stem. With Teal’c watching her back, she’d spent several hours today filling up their custom-built cases of sampling vials. 

All peaceful and completely private. Until now. 

O’Neill crouched down and stared atthe footprints, a rueful sense of inevitability creeping up his spine. 

"No inhabitants. Right." Shaking his head, he grimaced up at Captain Hindman. "Good spot, Captain." 

Pushing himself to his feet, he scanned the area, gaze sweeping critically over the floor of the forest. 

"There’s probably more sign here. You two do a thorough search of this stretch of the path. This is a booted foot. See if you can find any other indication of the level of civilization we’re looking at." 

He waved Hindman up the trail, Pall down, then reached for his com unit, tilting his head to get his mouth closer to the mic, activating SG-1’s com frequency. 

"Daniel? Carter? Everything okay?" 

"Yessir." 

"Fine, Jack." 

"Carter, you getting close to ready to go home to papa?" 

"Nearly finished, Sir. We’ve got some promising samples." 

"Teal’c, spot anything… funny?" 

"’Funny,’ O’Neill? There is nothing here to amuse." 

Jack grinned. "Right. We’ve just discovered that, once again, our little UAV sweep didn’t dig out all the goodies. Booted footprints." 

Daniel’s interested voice chimed in. _"Civilized inhabitants! How sophisticated?"_

"How should I know, Doctor Jackson? We’ll take a little picture for you. But under the circumstances, I really don’t want to do the meet-n-greet this trip, so how are you coming with your wall?" 

"What you really mean is, how much do I have to leave unstudied, right?" 

"Right." 

"I’ve got a good set of images and tapes of the upper sections, and a reasonable handle on what’s here. I’m losing the light, though, so I won’t be able to work much longer tonight. It’s really interesting, Jack. There are…" 

"Right, Daniel. You can tell me all about it at the debriefing." Pausing, he glanced back and forth between his two companions. "Anything interesting, guys?" 

"Nothing." Pall straightened and resettled the strap of his P-90 over his shoulder. 

"No, Sir. Just some more prints, but none as clear as those. Wait!" Hindman crouched and reached out to tease some scraps out of the ground cover. "Sir… look at these." 

He dropped his finds into O’Neill’s outstretched hand. A scrap of rawhide, string-like and worn, and what looked like a battered, crudely made bullet casing. Jack stared at the bits for a long moment, then reached again toward the radio. 

"Okay, Carter, Daniel, time to put your stuff away. Carter, you and Teal’c haul your bits of dirt to the Gate. Daniel, we’ll rendezvous with you at your location and help schlep your gear to the Gate. You can play with your wall until we get to you." He lowered his voice. "Daniel, go private, please." 

He switched to SG-1’s private frequency and waited for Daniel’s acknowledgement. 

"Jack?" 

"Those two doin’ theirjob?" 

For a moment, there was no response. _"Not so’s you’d notice."_ His voice was low and even. _"They’ve… had a lot to say."_

Shit. 

"Remind them that they are supposed to be standing guard while you work, will you?" 

"Ah, well, I think I’ll leave that to you." 

"Damn!" Jack snapped to the air around above his head. "I’m gonna behead those two morons!" 

He jerked the radio setting to their open frequency. "Willis! Everett! Get your stupid butts out of the dirt and walk your perimeter! This is **not** a National Park! We’ve got evidence of a native culture. Your job is to make sure we **don’t** get surprised." 

"Yessir." Willis’s voice was alert, but rather more casual than O’Neill appreciated. 

Damn. "Colonel, Captain, we’re heading back for Daniel and the twin rockheads." 

"Dammit, O’Neill," Pall snapped. "You can fuckin’ well clean up your act and stop treating my men like snotty-nosed brats!" 

"I’ll be glad to… soon as they stop **acting** like grubby assholes! They’re supposed to be securing the site so Daniel can work without getting skewered by some discontented native. Instead, they’re interfering with his work, and leaving all of us unprotected. Do I need to remind you that the ledge beside that damned wall is the only access route to this plateau? Now take point, and make tracks back to Daniel’s site." 

Growling angrily, the big Marine led the way back toward what O’Neill’s head insisted was south. The Stargate was positioned in a small clearing, nestled like the olive in a martini at the top of the long stem of a goblet-shaped plateau. Most of the stem and the ‘western’ portion of the flared bowl of the goblet were covered with a tauntingly almost-familiar deciduous forest, rich with the lush leafiness of high summer. 

Daniel’s wall curled along the ‘east’ rim of the goblet’s bowl. The ground dropped down, forming a ten foot wide, inclined ledge that apparently angled in straight sections all the way down edge of the wide portion of the plateau, into the dense lowland forest whose treetops formed a lush green carpet a couple of hundred feet below their vantage. To the right of the ledge, a steep, rocky drop-off descended unevenly down into that forest. To the left, the rocky vertical side of the plateau itself was artificially smoothed and covered for hundreds of yards down the path with carved and painted symbols. It had been enough to make Daniel’s eyes go glassy. 

Trailing Pall and Hindman as they headed for the top of the wall ledge, O’Neill continually flicked his eyes from side to side, all the relaxed appreciation of the last two days lost. Rationally, he was almost certain that no one could have gotten to the plateau without going past Daniel’s position, but he’d been unpleasantly surprised before. Fortunately, nothing untoward rewarded his vigilance. 

Puffs of dusty soil kicked up under their feet as they started down the sloping open ground of the first section of the ledge. The lowering sun brushed the dirt with red-gold warmth. 

"Daniel?" O’Neill spoke to the radio. "Still there." 

"Still here, Jack. No sign of any native presence." 

"Good. Our ETA is just a couple of minutes. Better put your toys away." 

"Yessir. Putting toys away, Sir." 

O’Neill grinned. "Stuff it, Daniel." 

Jack laughed and shook his head as the radio emitted a rude noise. 

Moments later, his group rounded the first curve of the ledge, and there they were. Daniel crouched, collecting a last-minute rubbing from a low portion of his wall, Willis and Hindman keeping desultory watch twenty feet further down the incline, just short of the next corner. 

The first thing O’Neill heard was Willis’s taunting voice, calling out something about graffiti. 

"Willis! You’ve got your eyes pointed the wrong way, and your mouth working overtime. Do your blasted job!" 

Daniel’s head snapped up, and a look of relief softened his features. 

"Hey, Daniel. Thought I told you to pack up." 

"Hey." Daniel stood and arched his back, stretching. He gestured to the neatly packed video case and supply satchels. "All packed. Just a bit of final stuff. This could keep me busy for a year." 

"Sorry, we gotta get moving. What do you make of these?" He dropped the two bits of refuse into Daniel’s waiting hand. 

"Interesting…" One finger gently shifting the scraps, the archaeologist pursed his lips. "Especially in the context of this." He gestured toward his precious wall. "I think we’ve got pretty good evidence here of a retrograde civilization. And we should have figured out right away that this planet was inhabited in the not-too-distant past. For one thing, this forest around the Gate was planted." 

"Planted? How do you figure?" 

"CUSH!" Hindman exclaimed. His face reddened as three pairs of eyes swiveled in his direction. 

"Right!" Daniel’s smile widened. "Nice call, Colin." 

Jack arched his eyebrows at the Marine captain. "Cush…? Like… cushion? Cushy? Coo coo ca choo?" 

"CUSH, Jack," Daniel scoldedgently. "As in, an undisturbed deciduous forest has four layers of green—canopy, understory, shrub, and herbaceous. C-U-S-H." 

Mouth twisted into a mocking smile, O’Neill continued to stare at Hindman. 

"What, Sir? So I took a couple of botany classes." 

" **And** remembered something you learned," Daniel added. "Anyway, the forest on the plateau has no canopy, even though this…" he gestured over the ledge to the rich green forest below, "… obviously does. That’s the top of the canopy we’re looking at. We don’t really know how fast-growing these tree species are, but if they’re comparable to, say, oak and maple on Earth, then this forest is only a few hundred years old, if that. And the oldest of the trees are all pretty much the same height and presumably the same age. They’re all relatively young trees. So either it was planted, or it was completely disrupted about that long ago. And I don’t see any sign of, say, a fire that cleared the plateau of plant life, and even hundreds of years later, you’d be able to tell." 

Jack knew he looked doubtful. But he’d learned long ago… Daniel was almost always right. 

"So, somebody planted all these trees." 

"I think so. And another thing… the species diversity is fairly low up here. Down there…" again gesturing toward the edge of the ledge, "… even observing from up here, I can document two or three times as much species diversity in the trees alone. So we should have figured out pretty quickly that, at least in the fairly recent past, someone was here. And what I’ve been able to figure out from the oldest of the writing here supports that conclusion." 

Jack stepped closer to the wall of carving and writing, brushing his fingers lightly over the surface. It looked like an unintelligible mess to him. He didn’t know how Daniel could figure any of it out. 

"You can read this?" 

"Not much, though I think I’ll be able to figure out most of it in time. But the things that I can make sense of suggest that this plateau was a holy place. A bit like a big, sacred garden. Fits with what we usually find about cultural attitudes toward the Stargate." 

Frowning up at what appeared to be a riot of total confusion inscribed on the flat wall, Jack shook his headslightly. Looked like complete gibberish. "So, about this retrograde thing…" 

"Look here!" Daniel dragged him up the slope to another stretch of wall. "You can see in this section—there are at least three layers here. First, the carved script. It’s beautiful, intricate, and I’m almost sure it was created by a power tool of some sort." 

"Whoa! Power as in… ?" 

"As in, run by a motor, rotating very fast, and tipped by a high quality, hard metallic point. High tech stuff." 

Jack leaned close, then tilted his head to the side so the lowering sun brought out the edges of the carved work. It **was** beautiful. Precise, delicate, and sharply defined. 

"But what’s all this other stuff?" 

"Well, that’s the point." Daniel was definitely winding up. "Look, there are at least two layers of painted material, one in a variety of colors—I’m not sure whether that’s all contemporaneous—and one in plain black. Both painted layers were obviously applied later than the carved material. The colored work clearly utilizes pretty much the same symbols as the carved work, but more crudely formed, and intermingled with simpler kinds of pictographic symbols. You can tell it was applied later, because, see here, some of the paint is actually applied inside the grooves of the carvings." 

Jack squinted, then nodded. "And the black stuff? Much as it galls me, I have to admit that I’m with Willis on that one. Looks like graffiti to me." 

Daniel’s eldritch smile twitched at his lips. "Well, I tend to agree. Compared to the rest of this, it **is** pretty graffiti-like. Much cruder than any of the rest of the work, and obviously the last layer applied. And note the way one set of the black symbols is frequently painted right over the top of another set." 

"So, what? We got ourselves some sort of extraterrestrial taggers?" 

Daniel laughed. "Ah… I’d say that’s a ‘yes.’ And note how much more coarse the application technique of the black is, and how much more pictorial it is. The script of the original carving is hardly represented at all. Almost all of the black material is pictographic. Yet the cultural continuity is also obvious—this isn’t a replacement. The newer material is obviously derived from the older. I don’treally have any idea how old any of it is. I’ve sampled the paint layers. If they turn out to be organically based, we might be able to carbon date them." 

Jack nodded slowly. "So…" 

"So, though I’m leaping to quite a few possibly unwarranted conclusions, I think this is pretty suggestive that we’ve got a civilization in retreat. If I had to guess, I’d speculate that some kind of crisis stressed the civilization to the point where they lost a lot pretty suddenly, and have been on a downward slide ever since. Those artifacts you found support that idea." 

"Artifacts? Bits of junk, you mean." 

"Artifacts, Jack," he teased. "That bullet casing looks like it’s been reused a number of times, and it isn’t very expertly machined in the first place. Nothing like the kind of carving bit that would be necessary to incise this script. The rawhide is well tanned, but rawhide isn’t a commonly used material in technologically advanced cultures. I suspect we’ll find that they’re using a lot of legacy materials and devices from the older, more advanced culture, combined with much less sophisticated newer tools and weapons. This is a big jump, but I wouldn’t be surprised if they no longer possess the technology to make the guns that would be able to fire this." His finger tapped the metallic bit cupped in Jack’s palm. 

Jack scowled up at the wall for a moment, then nodded his head at Daniel. "For what my opinion’s worth, makes sense to me. But for this trip…" 

"Told ya it was nothing but graffiti!" 

His head snapped around. The two Marine lieutenants had allowed their desultory guard pattern to drift close to the group clustered by the wall. 

"For God’s sake, you two. What the hell good does it do if you watch **us**? You’re supposed to be keeping any surprises from creeping up on us. And if they come, they’re going to come from down **there**!" 

Willis’s mouth tightened. "Begging your pardon, **Sir** , but we’ve been wasting our time here for two days, and there hasn’t been any sign that there’s anybody here to guard **against**." 

"You **never** make that assumption when you’re off world, you idiot! And haven’t you been listening, here? We’ve discovered exactly that. There **are** people—or something—living around here somewhere. Now get your lazy asses down there where you can watch the next section of this damned ledge!" 

"Too late…" Hindman’s soft words drifted from the rim of the ledge, where he’d moved to gaze down at the crown of the forest. His voice was accompanied by the sounds of Pall jerking his P-90 into firing position and clicking off the safety. 

"Damn!" O’Neill was conscious of the other three Marines lifting their own weapons. His own hands tightened around the P-90 he held as he turned to examine the group of men now standing thirty feet away, positioned to block the full width of the ledge. "Hold your fire!" 

"O’Neill!" Pall’s voice was fierce. 

"I **said** hold your fire.There’s no problem here… yet. Do **not** fire unless I give the order. You understand? All of you?" 

Daniel had moved close to Jack’s shoulder and was examining the natives with avid interest. 

"I knew it," he said softly. 

Jack nodded absently, gaze sweeping over the twenty or so assembled natives. Their clothing was composed of a combination of rather homespun-looking fabrics, tanned leathers and small bits of fur trim. Fairly basic. Their weaponry was a dizzying mixture of crude looking long-barreled firearms, metal-tipped spears and bows. He could see leather knife-sheathes belted around the waists of the men standing to the front of the group. The blunderbusses and bows were all raised and aimed, barrels and shafts glinting with reflections of the twilight sun. 

One of the natives from the front rank called out sharply, and a man from the back turned and ran off down the ledge. The speaker stepped cautiously out ahead of his companions, the heavy barrel of his weapon unwaveringly pointed at O’Neill. He stared at the six uniformed men, suspicion and anger clear in his expression. He yelled something that sounded harsh and demanding. 

"Oooo-kay. Daniel, you’re on. Think you can talk to these guys?" 

"I think so. At least a bit." 

Slowly, Daniel stepped out from behind Jack, hands spread open and held out away from his sides. He moved carefully forward, nodding to the natives’ spokesman. 

In response to O’Neill’s hand signal, Pall, Willis and Everett spread out toward Hindman, forming an even line across the width of the ledge. 

"Colonel!" Willis hissed. "What the hell is he doing? He hasn’t even drawn his gun!" 

"His job, Lieutenant. Just his job." 

"But…!" 

"Shut up, Willis." O’Neill surreptitiously activated his com. "Carter, Teal’c? Where are you?" 

"Just about at the Gate, Sir." 

"Okay, we’ve got ourselves a bit of a situation here. Keep your ears open, and be ready to give us backup if needed. Drop your stuff by the Gate and head in this direction. But whatever you do, do **not** come around the first corner of the ledge unless I call you, okay?" 

"Yes, Sir. On our way." 

Jack kept his gaze fixed on his teammate as Daniel tried his usual ‘peaceful explorers’ introduction. The native continued to stare suspiciously at him. 

Gesturing carefully toward himself, the archaeologist said, "Daniel." 

The native tilted his head and narrowed his eyes. Daniel repeated his introduction. 

After a long, tense moment, the native took his right hand off his aimed firearm and mimicked the gesture. "Tennor." 

Jack could see Daniel’s cheek curve as he smiled and gestured toward the other man, repeating, "Tennor." 

The man nodded, then gestured toward Daniel. "Dannel." 

For a few moments, silence reigned. Then Tennor said something that sounded like gibberish to Jack. He saw Daniel’s head tilt, and could imagine the inquisitive look on his face. 

Daniel spoke a couple of hesitant syllables, then listened attentively as Tennor slowly repeated his previous statement. He replied with a short string of carefully pronounced words. 

Jack nodded in relief. Trust Daniel. Looked like the two of them were making progress. 

He was aware of small, restless movements from the other members of his group. He glanced quickly at the Marines. Everett was panting slightly, lips parted, tongue periodically flicking over dry lips. Willis and Pall were grimly focused on the natives, hands clutched with white-knuckled tension on their raised weapons. 

"Easy, guys. Stay alert, but relax a bit. Daniel’s doing fine." 

"Define ‘fine,’ O’Neill," Pall hissed. "They outnumber us three to one." 

"Yeah. And that guy probably just went for reinforcements. But we wait. Let Daniel do his thing." 

Tennor’s gaze had shifted past Daniel, flickering from speaker to speaker. Abruptly, he reached out and shoved Daniel’s shoulder, saying something with sharp authority. Jack felt a shock of tension creep rapidly up his spine.

"Uh, Jack," Daniel called softly. "I think maybe you’d better be quiet for a bit." 

"Got it, Danny." 

When he looked back on it, Jack would recall subsequent events as a series of nearly still images… like the slideshow from hell, running at forward at top speed, and completely out of his control. 

<<snap>> Several additional natives erupting from the bottom of the slope. 

<<snap>> Two of the original natives shouting and flourishing their spears, presumably in greeting. 

<<snap>> Colonel Pall shouting angrily, firing into the group of natives. 

<<snap>> Daniel turning sharply, hand lifted as if to hold back the bullets. 

<<snap>> More shots from the Marines, Hindman’s mouth open to shout. 

<<snap>> The spearhead of one of the surging natives slicing sickeningly close to Daniel’s narrow waist. 

<<snap>> The native speaker’s blunderbuss exploding furiously; Hindman jerking as the projectile slammed into his body. 

<<snap>> Willis diving sideways toward Hindman, screaming and firing over and over again. 

<<snap>> From the confusion of milling natives, three gun barrels and two bows drawing on Willis and Hindman. 

<<snap>> Cry of denial from Daniel, followed by the stunning final image of his body impacting against Willis’s, sweeping all three of them over the edge of the cliff as the thunderous booms of the guns shocked Jack’s ears. 

And then they were retreating before the flood of outraged natives, air filled with flying arrows and a cacophony of booming blunderbusses, twanging bowstrings, and the sharp reports of their own firearms. Then the flash and roar of staff weapon fire as Teal’c and Carter answered his frantic summons and swept around the uphill corner. 

But it wasn’t enough. Slowly, inexorably, they were driven backward, away from that so-important bit of cliff-edge. The natives were too numerous for even their superior weaponry. With their reinforcements, there were easily forty of them, and though some fell,many more charged forward to take their places. And an arrow could be as deadly as a bullet. 

Sliding back around the upper corner of the ledge, returning fire automatically, reflexively, focus still locked on the image of those three bodies tumbling out into empty space. 

<<<<<>>>>>

‘Ohshitohshit! What the hell?’ 

Fuzzily, Zack Willis rolled his head, coughing convulsively and spitting the dirt out of his mouth. Weakly, he attempted to pull out from under the weight pressing on his hips and legs, but the effort was more than he could manage. 

Throat clenching in panic, he began to twist and writhe, heart hammering, mouth spitting imprecations, seemingly of its own accord. 

"Get the fuck off, lemme go, you sonofabitch! Shift your…" 

"W… willis?" 

"Jackson! You stupid fuckin’ asshole! What the fuck did you… ?" 

The weight on his legs abruptly shifted, dragged to the side. Freed, he wrenched his body around, immediately regretting the violence of his movement as his head flared with pain, vision blurred and blackened at the edges. Shit. 

His sight cleared to reveal Jackson, limned by the remnants of sunset, crouched over Hindman, one arm wrapped around his own torso, the other gently investigating a bloody wound in the Marine’s side. Hindman was unconscious; he’d been the burden on Willis’s legs. Both Jackson and Hindman were scratched and bruised, clothing and hair covered with dirt and debris. Willis brushed his hand over his own head, and the same detritus showered down in front of his face. Jackson’s glasses were nowhere to be seen. 

His own gun was nowhere to be seen. "Shit! Where’s my P-90?" 

Jackson looked up briefly and jerked his head toward the disturbingly close edge of their precarious perch. 

"Goddamit you bastard, you shoved us over the cliff! You made me lose my friggin’ gun!" 

Jackson’s head snapped up, his blue eyes burning with temper. "Shut up, Willis," he hissed. "Listen… hear that?" He gestured upwards.

Willis was abruptly aware of the noise from above them—weapons fire, screaming and yelling. His eyes snapped upward, noting the slight overhang above their heads. A glance to his right showed the edge of the narrow ledge they were currently occupying. And the significant distance from that edge to the base of the cliff. 

"Shit! We coulda… **fuck**!" 

"Will you keep it down, you idiot? I think the last thing we need is to attract any attention, now that you and your brainless colonel managed to start a war!" 

Willis dragged himself up onto his knees, feeling quivers of panicked reaction shivering through his body. Face twisted with fury, he leaned toward the other man. 

"What the damned hell did you think you were doin’, you stupid fuckup?" His voice escalated in pitch and volume "Shoulda just taken care of them before they brought the rest of the damned family!" 

"Talking, Willis," Jackson hissed in a vicious whisper. "That’s how we manage **not** to end up at war with everyone we meet on the other side of the Gate. Only brainless military morons just start **shooting**!" 

"Look where your stupid **talking** got us! Goddam idiot **civilian**! We’re stuck here! They probably think we’re all dead—should be fuckin’ mashed at the bottom of this stupid cliff. We’re all **dead** , thanks to you, you… you…" 

His search for an adequate epithet was abruptly interrupted by the sharp impact of a flattened palm against his cheek. 

"Wh…wha…" he stammered. "What the hell do you…" 

A second impact, more powerful than the first, shocked him into silence. 

"Next time it’s the fist, Willis. For God’s sake, **shut up**! We’re in a lot of trouble here, and Colin is really hurt. I never realized that a capacity for mindless panic was part of the desired Marine profile!" 

Willis’s mind was still spinning with fury and panic, but he grasped enough of the situation to button his lip. He contented himself with staring venomously at the battered archaeologist, imagining various scenarios for tricking the other man into blundering over the edge and tumbling down to the base of the cliff. 

"If you’re ready to startfunctioning again, come help me here." Jackson was once again fumbling with Hindman, carefully running his hands over the captain’s head, lifting eyelids, feeling his collarbone. For the first time, Willis noticed the blood darkening the civilian’s hands. 

"That yours?" 

Blue eyes flicked up briefly to meet his. "Maybe some of it; I’m fine. Help me with Colin." 

Scowling, wincing as bruised muscles twinged, Willis shrugged off his pack and shifted around to help as Jackson carefully peeled back Hindman’s bloody jacket and tugged the hem of his black T-shirt free of his pants. 

"Damn." 

Jackson nodded absently. "Help me raise up him a bit; get the pack off his back so he can lie down flat." 

As they lifted the limp body, Hindman moaned, moving his head slightly. Dazed eyes opened, squinting up into their faces. A puzzled crease furrowed between his brows. "Wh…what…?" 

"Easy… shhh." Jackson released the pack as Willis supported his teammate’s body. "Stay still, Colin. We fell." 

The captain murmured and shifted again, then settled against Willis, who lifted the heavy pack away and tossed it up against the side of the cliff. Carefully, they lowered Hindman’s shoulders down to the rough surface of the ledge. The injured man’s eyelashes fluttered, then slid down to rest against whitened cheeks. 

Jackson sat back on his heels, dropping his head and taking a deep breath. 

Willis sneered contemptuously. "So… now that you’ve dropped us in this stupid mess… what the hell do we do?" 

Blue eyes lifted to stare angrily into his face. "Whatever the hell we can. Whatever we have to. First… whatever we can for Colin." 

Shrugging out of his own pack, Jackson ripped open a side pocket and pulled out a medical kit. 

"Go through those packs… see what we’ve got. Especially stuff to patch him up." 

Favoring the civilian with a final resentful glare, Willis pulled viciously at his own pack, inventorying its contents. They appeared to have only one undamaged radio. He tossed the twodamaged coms aside, setting the good one safely toward the back of the ledge. He pulled out the two water bottles, the meager first aid materials and, as an afterthought, his store of food supplies. Repeating the task with Hindman’s pack, he ended up with four bottles of water, a small stack of MRE’s and a fair collection of bandaging and medical bits and pieces. And three powerful flashlights. 

Neither of the Marines had been as well supplied in first aid supplies as Jackson was—for some reason, he’d apparently augmented the standard issue. What they both had in abundance was rope. In fact, all three packs carried sizable coils of tough, small-gauge nylon rope. For all the good it was going to do them. 

After several minutes of cleaning and bandaging, the archaeologist sat back, staring into Hindman’s twitching face. The indecision in his own expression pushed Willis’s barely controlled panic up a notch. 

"What? He’s gonna be fine, right?" 

Jackson looked up into Willis’s eyes. "I don’t know. I’m not really a medic." His gaze dropped back to the bloody skin of Willis’s side. "That’s a pretty impressive looking wound, and I don’t see any exit, so the bullet’s still in him. But it doesn’t look to me to be in a very serious location. There’s also some bad swelling around his right calf. And…" He bit his lip, face twisted with concern. 

"What? What?" 

"I think he’s got a concussion. I… I’m not sure how his pupils are reacting—they **look** the same, but in this light it’s hard to tell. And I think he should have shown better signs of really waking up. There’s a heck of a knot on the side of his head." 

"Shit, shit! This is your damned fault, you filthy loser! What did you think you were doing?" 

Jackson’s face hardened. "You might not have noticed, but you were about to learn first-hand what a pleasure it is to experience a close encounter with a few arrows. Not to mention the guns those natives had pointed at you!" 

"And the only fuckin’ solution you could come up with was to jump off the goddamned cliff?" 

A wash of color flooded Jackson’s pale, smudged cheeks. "That wasn’t exactly what I had in mind." 

"Not what you had in mind… Fuck!You’re a fuckin’ screwup, Jackson." Willis twisted away from the other man’s gaze, jamming back against the cliff side to stare out over the treetops. "And now we’re gonna die here." His voice dropped to a hoarse whisper. "Goddam, fuckin’ civilian." 

<<<<<>>>>>

"Off-world activation!" 

Hammond lifted his head from the unending mountain of paperwork, listening for the repeat of the announcement. He had three teams off-world. Well, four if you counted SG-3. And none were due back this soon. 

At the confirming announcement, he knocked the stack of forms together and tossed them back into his "In" box, rose and headed briskly toward the control room. 

As he stepped through the door, the on-duty technician lifted her gaze from the monitor to meet his eyes. "SG-1, Sir." 

Damn. Of **course** it was SG-1. 

He hurried down toward the Gate room, calling, "Open the iris!" over his shoulder. The spine-tightening whoosh of the Gate escorted him through the blast doors into the heart of the SGC facility. As the wormhole stabilized, he stepped to the base of the ramp, apprehension tightening in his chest. 

Hammond abruptly realized he was holding his breath, gaze locked on the pseudo-aquatic Gate interface. Deliberately, he forced himself to breathe. 

For a moment, nothing. Then Major Carter emerged, running, from the wormhole, immediately followed by a tumbling Colonel Pall. A few breathless seconds later, O’Neill and Teal’c, a motionless body slung over his shoulder, leaped through, O’Neill yelling, "Close the iris! Medic!" 

The iris sheared together just too late to stop the flight of an arrow, which hissed over their ducking heads to smash against the cement of the Gate room’s back wall. 

O’Neill dropped to his knees and pounded his fists against the metal of the ramp. "Damn damn damn damn!" 

Pall slowly dragged himself to his feet, red-stained fingers of his right hand tightly clutching his left bicep. Face livid with fury, he pivoted slowly to face the still kneeling O’Neill. 

"You goddam flyboy! So you’re in command, are you. You…"

O’Neill’s head snapped up, revealing eyes dark with fury. "You… unbelievable… **moron**! You…" 

"Colonels!" Hammond waited long enough to ensure that he’d truncated both tirades. "Colonel O’Neill, where is the rest of your team?" 

O’Neill squeezed his eyes tightly shut, then met Hammond’s stern gaze. "We had to leave them behind, Sir." 

"They’re dead, is where they are!" Pall interrupted savagely. "Thanks to that puke of a civilian!" 

"The hell it was, you trigger-happy bastard! And we do not the hell know that **anybody’s** dead!" 

"Enough! Both of you… get your medicals, then report to the briefing room immediately. And be ready to give me coherent status reports." 

The two shared final venomous glares, then followed the gurney carrying Everett down the corridor. 

Hammond turned to the final members of the team. "Teal’c? Major Carter?" 

The Jaffa’s eyes were very grave. "This mission has not gone well, General Hammond." 

"We… we left Daniel. Again." Carter drew a harsh breath. "We had no choice, Sir, but…" 

"Colonel Pall suggested…" 

"No! I… Well, we don’t know. They… they went over a cliff." 

"Over a cliff!" 

"The inhabitants of the planet were attacking us, General Hammond. They were between our position and the cliff edge. We were unable to return to ascertain the state of Daniel Jackson and the two Marines." 

Carter’s head drooped tiredly. "And the natives were all over the Gate clearing. We’re not going to be able to go back any time soon without killing a lot of them and… well, they really can’t be blamed for this, Sir." 

"Colonel Pall." 

Her mouth tightened. "Yes, Sir. Colonel Pall." 

Hammond nodded and gestured toward the corridor. "Go get your medicals, then join us in the briefing room. TheMALP is still on the other side; we’ll assess the situation in a few hours. Now off to the infirmary; see if you can keep those two colonels from each others’ throats." 

Carter smiled sadly and followed her teammate out of the Gate room. Hammond watched as their backs were swallowed up by the darkness of the hallway, then looked up to the control room. 

"Attempt to reestablish contact with the MALP on P3Z 708 at fourteen hundred hours, Sergeant. I’ll be in the infirmary, then in the briefing room." 

He cast one final unhappy glance at the silent Gate, then followed his teams toward the elevator. 

<<<<<>>>>>

"Will you **stop** that!" 

Willis dropped back to the surface of the ledge and spun around to snarl at the archaeologist. "Will **you** get off your butt and help get us **off this goddam ledge**!" 

" **Listen** , Willis! It’s getting dark, and they’re still up there." Hindman shifted restlessly, and Jackson’s hand slid gently up and down the man’s uninjured arm, soothing him back to sleep. "For now, we have to stay here." 

Grudgingly, the Marine slid down to lean once again against the rocky cliff. "You heard the Gate. They’ve left us here… probably think we’re dead." 

"Jack won’t give up until he **knows** what’s happened to us." 

"Right. Like he’s gonna come back into the middle of **that** mess!" 

"Yes. He will. One way or another." 

"Like shit he will." 

"Willis, this is one of those things you just don’t get. We’re a team. I trust Jack. I know him through and through, and he **won’t** give up on us." 

Scowling, Willis met the other man’s sincere gaze. "It’s been hours, Jackson. If they were gonna come back…" 

"Willis, they can’t just charge back into the middle of that band of natives. We’ve heard the Gate activate—they’re checking." 

"So what the hell do we do in the meantime?"

"We stay here. There’ll be a moon, but it will still be too dark… it’s suicide to try climbing that cliff without being able to see what we’re doing, and that moon isn’t going to provide enough light for that. So we wait." 

"We’ve got the flashlights." 

"They won’t last long enough for us to get to somewhere safer than where we are. And how are you going to hold a flashlight while you’re crawling along the cliff? Besides, I think it’s dangerous to use them too much. I’d just as soon the natives keep on thinking we’re dead." 

Willis kicked angrily at the ground. "What about Hindman?" 

Jackson drew a deep breath, cheeks puffing as he blew it out. "I don’t really know. But I don’t think he’s as bad as I originally thought. He’s lucid, when he’s awake. Hopefully it’ll help him to get some rest. The morphine should keep him quiet for a while. We need him as capable as possible if we’re going to try to get off this ledge in the morning." 

"How the hell can we stay here all night? I don’t know about you, but I have a tendency to move around a bit in my sleep. I don’t want to wake up to find myself rolling off this goddam shelf." 

Jackson’s gaze dropped. "Ah, yes… well, I kind of think we shouldn’t sleep much. I… uh… I don’t always sleep very peacefully." 

Willis let his frustration with their impossible situation burn through his mind and invest his words with fierce disrespect. "What, sweetie—have nightmares, do we?" 

He felt a moment of uncharacteristic remorse when the civilian’s mouth tightened and a sweep of color bright enough to be seen despite the fading light flushed his cheeks. Then he clamped down hard… this was Jackson’s doing. He deserved to get a bit of his own back. 

"So, we get to sit here and keep each other awake until the fuckin’ sun comes up?" 

Tired eyes studied him grimly. "Yes. And we **stop** talking. Right now, those people are staying out on the plateau, but they can’t come and go any way other than down past my wall. And they’ll hear us if we sit here and fight." 

Willis stared grimly at the other man. "Right. No sleep. No talk. Fuck."

He was sure he heard a barely voiced, "No, thanks." 

<<<<<>>>>>

The sense of a tragically skewed déjà vu shivered down Hammond’s spine. There they were again, facing off across the table. But this time half of the cast was missing. Pall was alone on his side, and the chair beside O’Neill was sobering in its emptiness. Beyond the chair, which they had carefully left unoccupied, Carter and Teal’c were adding the heat of their angry stares to their group leader’s. 

They’d had their chances to explain, shouting and screaming at each other. Pall’s insistence that the trouble had stemmed from Doctor Jackson’s inept handling of the natives was unshaken, despite the adamant denials of the three members of SG-1. O’Neill and his teammates were livid with fury at the accusations. Their stories were all the same—the archaeologist had been making progress until Pall had overreacted and opened fire. 

Eyes cold as Minnesota in January, Pall sat back and lifted his chin. "What the hell can you expect when you put a civilian on a military unit?" 

O’Neill slammed his fist on the tabletop. "You filthy asshole! No way am I gonna let you put this on Daniel. You **freaked**! All your Marine machismo, right out the window. You fuckin’ panicked, Pall! I’m bettin’ your crotch is a bit damp!" 

A hot flush swept over Pall’s pale skin, and he half stood, leaning aggressively over the table toward his nemesis. 

"Enough!" Hammond put every scrap of volume and authority into his bellow. "That will be **all** , both of you!" 

Fortunately for the sake of his sense of control, the tension was disrupted as Doctor Fraiser slipped through the door, carefully closing it behind her. 

"Doctor, what’s the word on Lieutenant Everett?" 

She lowered herself into the chair at the end of Pall’s side of the table, dropping a folder onto the surface and resting her folded hands on the manilla pouch. "He’s in surgery. He’s almost certainly going to lose his spleen, and I don’t hold out much hope for his left kidney. There is significant muscular damage to his left leg, and I’m concerned about nerve impingement. The other injuries are relatively minor. I’m pretty sure he’s going to make it, but I doubt he’s going to make it back toactive service, at least at the SGC." 

Hammond grimaced and shook his head, then snapped it to the left as Pall erupted in fury. 

"Goddam that stupid moron! A fine Marine’s career ruined because of a fuckin’ puke who had no fuckin’ business being anywhere near this operation!" 

O’Neill was on his feet, leaning over the conference table, shoving his face close to the other colonel’s. "Stuff it, you fuck-up! Daniel’s **not** the one responsible for this!" 

" **Quiet**!" Hammond roared over Carter’s supportive shout. Teal’c’s low growl vibrated in the sudden silence. "Colonels, one more outburst by either of you, and you’re in the brig for the foreseeable future. And I **might** just put you in the same cell, just to relieve the Air Force of the problem of dealing with you! Keep your insubordinate mouths **shut** so we can determine just what needs to be done to get those men back through that Gate!" 

Mouths snarling, bodies tight as bowstrings, the two primary combatants slowly sank back into their padded chairs. 

Fraiser’s firm, business-like voice cut through the tension. "Actually, Sir, I can contribute some information to help settle this… disagreement." Her full lips tightened at the irony of her description. "Lieutenant Everett was lucid for several minutes before he succumbed to the anaesthetic, and he was able to describe his version of the events that led to his injury." 

She fixed her gaze on Colonel Pall, then stood and stepped down the length of the table to hand the folder to Hammond. 

Hammond opened the folder and read the page it protected. He felt a twinge of guilt at the relief that loosened the knot in his chest. He wasn’t supposed to play favorites, but… 

Leaning back, he glanced to his right at the three sharp profiles—three gimlet stares impaling the Marine colonel. Then he turned slowly to the left, pursing his mouth as he gazed at Pall. 

"Colonel Pall, Lieutenant Everett’s statement supports SG-1’s. He says that Doctor Jackson was apparently making progress—he expressed considerable surprise and some admiration that Doctor Jackson approached and spoke to the native leader without drawing his weapon. According to Everett, you responded to movement among the natives by openingfire. He’s not… pleased with you." 

"Yes!" O’Neill’s fist again impacted with the table top. 

"Colonel O’Neill, you just took one step closer to that cell!" 

O’Neill’s mouth pursed into a moue of rebellion, but he did lean back, eyes fixed on Pall’s face, fiercely mocking. 

"Colonel Pall, we will consider the repercussions of this situation later. Consider yourself confined to base for the immediate future. Right now, we’ve got more important issues to deal with. We have three men, at least one apparently significantly injured, trapped on a planet to which we currently have no access. Suggestions?" 

Pall’s scowl deepened. "They went over the damned cliff. They’re dead." 

"No! We don’t know that! They **could** have survived the fall." 

Carter leaned forward to look past her colonel. "Sir, the drop to the forest was pretty far, but the cliff was rough—lots of irregularities in the slope, small ledges, even some shrubbery rooted in the cliff face. They… they might not have fallen all the way. At least some of them." 

"Sounds to me like wishful thinking, Carter!" The sneer on Pall’s mouth was dismissive. "I don’t think there’s any real chance they survived." 

"Even if we decide they’re probably dead, we **don’t** leave them if there’s any chance!" 

"O’Neill is correct, Colonel Pall." Teal’c’s rich voice was edged with deep censure. "Daniel Jackson has a history of great resourcefulness. We must proceed under the assumption that he at least has survived. And if he lives, he will do his best to preserve the lives of his companions as well." 

Pall snorted, shaking his head in disgust. 

"Enough, Colonel Pall. Colonel O’Neill, we will continue to dial up P3Z 708 every three hours. Hopefully, the natives will eventually get bored and go home. And we might attempt to contact Doctor Jackson through the MALP radio transmitter. For now, SG-1, I want you all to get cleaned up and get a bit of rest. When the opportunity presents, we’re going to want to get back through that Gate as quickly as possible, and I know betterthan to suppose that you’ll let anyone else go after Doctor Jackson." 

O’Neill dropped his gaze to the table, then shook his head. "This is a real mess, Sir." 

"I agree, Jack. Now go get that shower." 

<<<<<>>>>>

Daniel jerked his head up. Damn… drowsing again. He shifted carefully… it really was amazing that he **could** drift off, considering how much every part of his body hurt. 

Especially his side. The spear tip had just slid along the skin at his waist. The cut was long, but not too deep; he knew it wouldn’t be serious. Probably wouldn’t even need stitches. Didn’t stop it from hurting like a gigantic torn fingernail, however. The waist of his pants pressed uncomfortably against the dressing he’d taped over the injury. And he really couldn’t use any of their small supply of morphine on himself. He needed to eke it out as much as he could for Hindman. Besides, he couldn’t afford to take any edge off his alertness beyond what was already leached away by a tense, sleepless night. 

The Marine captain had surfaced briefly several times during the seemingly interminable hours of darkness. Daniel was feeling a bit more positive… Hindman seemed to be alert, if a bit confused. They’d exchanged a few very quiet words, and Colin’s answers to Daniel’s testing questions had been encouraging. 

But he was in quite a bit of pain. And Daniel was grimly aware that their minimal first aid materials were woefully inadequate, particularly to treat the bullet wound in the Marine’s side. He’d changed the dressing a couple of times. The bleeding had slowed to a sluggish seep, so he wasn’t particularly worried about blood loss. But he knew the real enemy was infection. The bullet had ripped right through layers of clothing, and had undoubtedly taken dirt and fibers with it. They needed to get back to Earth as fast as possible, or Colin was in real trouble. 

Wearily, he rolled his head against the rock wall, turning to check on Willis. The Marine’s gaze was fixed on the lightening sky. His tired face was tight with dissatisfaction. They’d said almost nothing to each other through the long, cool night. Just listened to the ebb and flow of noise from the natives on the plateau above them, and the occasional roar of the opening Gate. 

"Willis?" Daniel kept his voice low. 

For a moment, the other man ignoredhim. Then he turned slowly to meet Daniel’s eyes. "Yeah?" 

"I think we need to start thinking about how to get out of here." 

"Oh, yeah? Just how do you propose to do that, Professor Klutz? In case you haven’t noticed, we’re stuck on a little bitty ledge, half-way down a cliff, with an incapacitated man." 

"Well, I’ve been thinking…" 

"Lord, the boy’s been thinking. Deliver me from smart-ass geeks." His voice rose. "I’ve got news for you, Jackson. You can’t think us offa this goddam ledge!" 

"Shut up, you idiot! And do you want to make that a challenge?" 

"Yeah, show me your stuff, moron. You taking up levitation these days?" 

"Okay, I think it’s obvious we’re not going to be able to go up this cliff. Even without the overhang, I think it’s too vertical. And down is just as bad, a lot further, and not the direction we need to go. But…" he gestured toward the cliff that extended beyond Willis’s position, back toward the ‘stem’ of the plateau’s goblet… and the Stargate, "I think we can work our way along the cliff that way. If we can get ourselves beyond the Gate location, the sides further down are significantly less steep. That would also hopefully get us beyond the party the natives seem to be having around the Gate. We should be able to work our way back up to the top of the plateau." 

"Are you **nuts**? It’ll probably take all day… and that would be if it’s just us. Assuming **you** can manage that kind of workout. But what the hell do we do about Hindman? No way in hell do I let you leave him behind!" 

"Keep your damned voice **down**!" Daniel hissed. "I know actually thinking is a new experience for you, but unless you want to just sit here until we get tired enough to fall asleep and roll over the edge, stretch a bit and give it a try!" He shifted carefully out from under Hindman’s head, sliding one of the packs in to replace the cushion of his numb thigh. Cautiously, he stood, shaking his legs to reestablish circulation. "Look—you can see plenty of places for hand and foot holds along the cliff. I think it’s doable." 

"And Hindman?" Willis mocked. 

Daniel heaved in a deep breath."Difficult. I’m pretty sure that it’s going to be impossible for him to put any real weight on that leg. We can wrap it pretty well, but we’ve got nothing to splint or brace it with until we get up into the trees." He worried his lower lip with his teeth. "I don’t think either of the bones is broken, but there’s a lot of pain and swelling. And I’m not sure his concentration is going to be very reliable, especially under the influence of morphine. But we’ve got plenty of rope. I think we can rig some sort of harness that we can sling between the two of us. Difficult. But I don’t think it’s impossible. And I really don’t want to spend another night on this ledge!" 

"Well, at least we agree about that." Willis also hauled himself to his feet, bending and flexing to loosen muscles stiffened by a night of tense inactivity. Then he turned to examine the steep slope. Grudgingly, he nodded. "Yeah, we might be able to do it. But with Hindman…" He turned to look down at his sleeping teammate. 

"We do it with him, or we don’t do it. Nobody gets left behind." 

"You mean like O’Neill left us behind?" 

"He’ll be back for us, if we don’t get ourselves home first." He dropped back down to sit on the rocky surface of the ledge, pulling one of the empty packs close. "Now stuff as much as you can in two of the packs, and I’ll start in on making a carrying harness for Colin. We don’t want to leave anything behind; who knows what we’ll need to get close enough to the Gate to dial out? Let Colin sleep as long as he can; this is going to be tough on all of us." 

"Yes **Sir** , General Sir," Willis mocked. 

"Just shut up and do it, Willis." Daniel attacked the tough fabric of the pack with his knife. "Oh, and leave out one of those syringes of morphine. I think Colin’s going to need it." 

<<<<<>>>>>

Jack paced restlessly back and forth across the control room. 

"C’mon, c’mon, open it up, f’r crissake!" Viciously, he kicked the wall. "C’mon, you stupid Gate!" 

As the Gate finally whooshed its connection, he whirled back toward the technician crouched behind the Gate console. "Finally!"

He leaned forward, ignoring the technician’s annoyed glance. Looming over the man’s shoulder, he leaned close to the monitor, waiting for the MALP transmission to stabilize. The screen fritzed and wavered, then settled into the vaguely blocky image broadcast from the probe’s visual sensors. 

The image was tiresomely familiar. This was their third attempt, and it showed them the same frustrating scene each time—the pretty grassy area around the Gate on 708. And the yelling, gesturing confusion of natives still occupying the clearing. 

"Damn damn **damn**! Don’t you bastards ever go home to bed?" 

Jerking away, he stalked back and forth once, then closed in on the technician again. 

"Try the radio, Walters!" 

"Yessir." 

Nothing. No response. 

"Again!" 

"Sir, they…" 

"I said try it again!" 

The airman sighed and leaned toward the microphone, repeating his request for a response from the missing men. 

For a moment, there was nothing but slightly crackling silence. Then, the clicking of contact, and a faint, scratchy voice, breaking up but understandable. 

"SGC, this … …tenant Zackary … of SG-3. Contact ack … all alive … return … Stargate. Requ … silence for our safety." 

"Yes!" Jack’s fist pumped in the air. He swiveled around to glare in triumph at Pall, standing toward the back of the control room. The Marine tightened his lips, then dropped his gaze to the floor. 

Hammond stepped past O’Neill to lean close to the microphone. 

"We read you Lieutenant Willis." He spoke in a low voice. "We’ll dial in again in…" He turned to Jack, brows lifting. 

Jack did some fast figuring, then offered, "It’s about three hours after sunrise there, Sir. Maybe try contact in four hours." 

Nodding, Hammond turned back to the transmitter. "We’ll dial again in four hours, and will wait for you toinitiate contact. If we pick up no transmission, we’ll try again at six hour intervals. Good luck, son." 

"Roger, Sir. Better … six hours." 

Hammond acknowledged the change, then closed the exchange. The hiss of the carrier wave filled the silence of the room, then abruptly ceased as the airman terminated the connection. For a long moment, no one spoke. Finally, Jack broke the silence. 

"He sounded kinda stressed." 

"He sounded exhausted, Colonel. I wish to God we knew what was going on over there. But for now, we’ll just have to trust them to take care of themselves." 

<<<<<>>>>>

Willis was discovering muscles he’d never suspected existed. And he wished he’d never found them, since their chosen method of making themselves known was through **pain**. 

Shit, he hurt. Arms, legs, shoulders and scraped fingers. And **hot**. He’d been glad of the mild night temperatures, but the three of them were paying the price now. 

But damned if it wasn’t working. Slowly, agonizingly, but working. 

Clinging tightly to the side of the cliff, Willis paused, panting. He turned to look back at Hindman and Jackson, assessing. The captain was looking a hell of a lot like a ragged old pair of jeans—face filthy, pale and sweating, lips parted to pant, eyes half closed. Jackson… damned if he wasn’t holding his own. He’d rigged a harness out of rope and the torn apart pieces of a pack and vest. Bits of the canvas padded Willis’s and Jackson’s own shoulders and sides, providing marginal protection from the bite of the ropes. They each kept a hand fisted in the cords threaded through the tough fabric cradling Hindman’s body, and, with the captain’s earnest if somewhat feeble help, they crept along the rocky surface like a weird three handed, five legged insect. 

Keeping his voice as low as possible, he said, "Gotta rest a second, Jackson." 

Hindman rolled his head weakly toward Willis. "Oh, yeah," he panted. "Rest." 

The archaeologist nodded wearily, trying ineffectually to wipe his face on his tense shoulder, fingers clinging whitely to the rock. He loosened his grip on Hindman’s harness long enough to rub a hand soothingly over the injured man’s bock, then once again grabbed the rope, helping the captain to stabilize his balance on his one useful leg. 

"We need to find some place to get a real rest, Willis. Among other problems, if we don’t get some fluids into all three of us we’re going to be facing some serious dehydration issues." 

"Looks like a little bit of a ledge just a ways ahead. Should be able to let go of this damned cliff and relax for a while." 

Jackson rested his forehead against the wall. "Thank God," he whispered. "Much longer and I think my arm’s going to fall off." 

Unexpectedly, Willis found himself grinning at the other man. "What, Iron Jackson? C’mon, Doc. You’ve got a few more hours in you." 

Jackson glanced doubtfully at Willis, assessing his expression. Then the archaeologist’s anxious face relaxed and his lips curved in an exhausted smile. "Oh, at least ten. May I commend you on being bold enough to suggest a rest break? I’ve been dying to stop for the last half hour. Too embarrassed to admit I was out of gas." 

Willis actually laughed softly. "Out of gas? Is that what this is? God, I’d kill for an hour in a Jacuzzi right about now." 

Jackson’s smile widened, then he closed his eyes and leaned against the hillside. "I’d settle for just sitting down for ten minutes," he whispered. 

Their heads snapped up as the distant whoosh of the Gate sounded. They knew the natives were still there, conferring near the Gate, still trotting back and forth, up and down the ledge that ran along Jackson’s wall. 

"Damn," Jackson breathed. "They really need to stop doing that for a while. Those men are never going to leave if they keep firing up the Gate every two or three hours." 

Willis jerked, nearly losing his grip on the cliff face, when the radio on his shoulder vibrated with the voice of one of the SGC control room technicians. "Shit!" He turned anxiously toward Jackson. "Can you hold him?" 

Jackson nodded, sliding his arm more securely around Hindman’s back. 

Willis used his freed hand to activate the radio, speaking softly and quickly. "SGC, this is Lieutenant Zackary Willis of SG-3. Contact acknowledged. We are all alive and attempting to return to the Stargate." 

"Tell them to back off on the contact attempts. Keep quiet." 

Willis nodded and clicked the radio to continue his broadcast. "We strongly request that you maintain radio silence for our safety." 

General Hammond’s voice replied, _"We read you Lieutenant Willis. We’ll dial in again in…"_ a pause, _"…four hours."_

Jackson shook his head. "Too soon!" 

Nodding again, Willis responded, "Roger, Sir. Better make that six hours." 

They listened to the rest of the message, then exchanged nods. 

"Ready to get this party back on the road, Jackson?" 

The archaeologist groaned slightly. "Was this my idea?" 

"Oh, yeah. C’mon, Geek, we’re not even half-way there." 

Jackson again rubbed Hindman’s back. "You ready, Colin?" 

A breath of exhausted laughter shook the captain’s back. "Daniel, I’m never gonna be ready for this. Let’s just **do** it." 

Willis met Jackson’s tired, worried eyes. They exchanged a grim nod, returned their hands to the ropes of Hindman’s harness, and moved slowly away from their perch, once again inching toward their dauntingly distant goal. 

<<<<<>>>>>

Daniel was sure he’d never in his life been this tired. His legs shook uncontrollably; the lateral muscles on his sides seemed determined to cramp. Strangely, his butt hurt from long hours of tightly clenching his glutes. His arms felt like they’d break off at the shoulders if he lowered them from their ‘ready’ position. The gnawing annoyance of the slice in his side was no more than background for the much worse torment of his stressed muscles. 

But they’d made it to Willis’s ledge. They had their desperately needed rest stop. Speaking of which… 

"Uh… not to embarrass anyone or anything," he whispered hoarsely. "But if you guys feel anything likeI do, I think we need to… um… improvise facilities." 

Willis, lying slouched against the cliff, laughed soundlessly. "Shit, as much water as we **haven’t** been able to drink since we left that fuckin’ ledge, I can’t believe I need to piss. Just aim over the edge, Doc. We won’t peek." 

Daniel hoped the blush that added heat to his cheeks was invisible against the burn he’d acquired from the relentless sun. But there was no choice. He couldn’t deal with this discomfort on top of the necessary stress of their bizarre journey. 

Willis joined him in watering the trees far below. Then they collaborated to help Colin complete the same task. 

Relieved and tucked back into his pants, Daniel gently checked Hindman’s injuries, using some of their precious supplies to replace the dressings. The skin around the bullet wound was hot, red and badly swollen. Not good. The bump on his head was very painful, but he didn’t seem to be suffering from any frightening symptoms, other than what was apparently a screaming headache. 

Daniel finished by gently massaging Colin’s good leg, which had been doing double duty during their marathon cliff-crawl. The muscles had been cramping badly. 

Then all three of them just flopped back against the rock, sipped gratefully at water bottles, and relaxed every muscle they could find. 

"Whadda you figure—we half way there, yet?" 

Daniel nodded at Willis’s faint question. "Yeah. This is about where the plateau curves into the ‘stem’ of Jack’s goblet." He barely breathed the words. They could hear the desultory conversations of the natives on the surface above. "We’re almost level with the Stargate clearing. We need to get well past it before we risk climbing up. Good news is it should get easier, because the slope further down isn’t as sharp. Bad news is I don’t think we’re going to make it by dark. And it’s still too dangerous to do this by moonlight. So I think we’re spending another night on a ledge." 

The unspoken modifier hung in the air between them. Another sleepless night. They were exhausted; keeping each other alert through another night was going to be hell. 

"You got any idea how we’re gonna get those bastards far enough away from the Gate to get home?" 

Allowing his eyelids to slide shut,Daniel dropped his chin onto his chest. "No idea. One thing at a time. We get up there… then we’ll figure it out." 

"He’ll do it." Hindman’s voice was a bare thread of sound. "Ideas-R-Us. That’s Doctor J." 

Smiling, Daniel reached out a limp hand to brush over the captain’s filthy hair. "I’ll do my best. Can’t not after that testament." 

Silence enveloped them for a few moments. Gradually becoming conscious of Willis’s regard, Daniel opened his eyes and rolled his head against its rocky pillow, meeting the Marine’s speculative gaze. 

"Mmmmwhat?" he whispered. 

"Jackson, you are one stubborn sonofabitch. I’m beginning to see what everyone’s been talking about." 

Daniel’s body quivered with weak laughter. "What, because I wouldn’t sit on that ledge and wait for Daddy to come fetch me home?" 

"Something like that." 

Shaking his head, Daniel closed his eyes again. "Rest, Willis. Hell of a long way to go still." 

"Yeah. But we’ll make it. I’m sure now that we’ll make it." 

<<<<<>>>>>

Sam deliberately loosened her fisted hands. Absently, she noted the small, sharp grooves left in her palms by her short fingernails. 

They were getting nowhere. 

The general’s hand slapped the tabletop. "Give me some options, people. We know they’re alive and attempting to return, but I’m very reluctant to leave them to their own devices." 

Colonel O’Neill shook his head, staring at the glossy surface of the conference table. "No lie, Sir. We **know** Hindman is hurt—we saw him take a shot. And how the hell they’re gonna get close enough to dial out I can’t figure. Those damned natives have squatted around the Gate." 

Hammond leaned back in his chair, small mouth pursed in frustration. "What about using one of the Goa’uld stun grenades? If we could knock the natives out long enough to get through and fetch our people…" 

Sam shook her head. "They’re tooscattered, Sir. The grenades work fine in an enclosed space, or in the open if the targets are close. But every time we’ve checked, they’ve been all over that clearing. And that’s another thing…" She hesitated for a moment, then continued. "We’ve probably actually made things worse by continually opening the Gate. Willis sounded pretty frazzled… I think we’ve contributed to keeping the natives riled up and suspicious. If we hadn’t dialed in, they might very well have given up and gone home." 

O’Neill’s mouth twisted scornfully. "I think we figured that one out, Carter. Damn." He beat both fists on the table a couple of times, then turned fierce eyes toward the general. "Sir, let me take a couple of SG teams through… Our superior weaponry should…" 

"I do not think that would be a wise course of action, O’Neill." Teal’c’s interruption was firm. "We were the aggressors. To return in force would compound our error." 

Sam was nodding in agreement. "Colonel, Daniel would be horrified if we killed a bunch of those natives for his sake." 

O’Neill’s angry brown eyes shifted from one of his teammates to the other. She knew this was just killing him. "We can’t just leave him… them there!" 

A twinge of pain pinched her gut. "I… I think we may have to, Sir. Maybe we should trust Daniel. He’s delivered miracles before." 

He was shaking his head. "Maybe we can’t charge through and take them out, but we **can’t** just sit back and count on Daniel to find another rabbit in that bottomless hat he seems to have. He’s stuck over there with a wounded Hindman, and with **Willis** , for God’s sake. We might just as well have shot him ourselves!" 

"Well, Colonel, as soon as someone comes up with a viable course of action, I’ll be happy to listen. For now, we wait. And trust Doctor Jackson **and** the two Marines to figure out a solution." 

<<<<<>>>>>

The second night was colder. Or maybe they were just so worn down that their heat-generating abilities had been compromised. But it felt cold. 

Daniel ran his fingers over Hindman’s cheek. Cold fingers, hot skin. Hindman was running a pretty good fever. He’d been nearly incoherent with exhaustion by the time they’d reached yet another small ledge and settled for the night. They couldn’t afford to let this go on for another twenty-four hours. They needed to get him to medical help. The slice in his own side was hot and inflamed. He still wasn’t very worried about it, but the terrible task of helping Colin across the cliff face had irritated and abraded it. The location of the wound was unfortunate—not only did his own belt scrape over the cut, but the jerry-rigged harness also hit that part of his body. 

There was no remedy other than to get this marathon journey completed. He figured they were almost far enough along to begin toiling toward the plateau’s flat surface. 

He was overcome by a wave of plaintive longing. He wanted to be up on that forest floor so desperately. The burning ache from one end of his body to the other suggested how difficult the rest of the climb was going to be. And once there, he would have to face that other problem. They were still a long way from home. 

They’d had another very brief conversation with the SGC. The six hour mark had been upon them at the worst possible moment. They’d been clinging desperately to the cliff just below the Gate clearing—their closest point to the restless group of men collected around the alien device. The conversation had consisted of a fiercely hissed exhortation to terminate the communication, and a hasty arrangement for another attempt in twelve hours. 

He leaned back against the rock wall, tilting his head to stare up at the pallid moon. It was smaller than Earth’s familiar satellite. Dimmer. His torn and abraded fingers tightened into fists. He did not want to end his life under the wrong moon. They **would** manage this. 

<<<<<>>>>>

O’Neill was once again pacing behind the control room technician. A different tech this time, but it made no difference. It felt just the same. Like they’d been spinning wheels on ice—no further along than they’d been when they’d tumbled back through that Gate. 

And in the meantime, Daniel was marooned with a wounded man and a gung-ho moron who resented every breath he drew. 

He jerked to a halt, breathing deeply. The knot in his stomach tightened, twisting his gut. ‘Ah, Danny. Please do your magic one more time.’ 

They were preparing to dial again—to attempt one more time to find out what was going on with their lost lambs. For the sake of amicable relationships among various members of the SGC—including the three remaining members of SG-1—he hoped the news was better this time than that abortive little chat they’d had twelve hours ago. 

And he desperately wanted to hear Daniel’s voice. Willis said they were all alive, but Jack wouldn’t truly accept it until he heard his teammate’s own confirmation. 

The chunking sound of the first chevron engaging brought his attention back to the present. He stepped up behind the tech, staring at the spinning Gate, **willing** the three men to be fine, and on their way home. 

"Seventh chevron locked!" 

Hammond appeared in his peripheral vision, also gazing at the activating Gate. "They’ll be fine, Jack," he said softly. "We’ll get them home." 

Jack nodded wordlessly, then leaned over the tech’s shoulder, holding his breath as he waited for the image from the MALP to brighten the screen. 

Nothing. No grassy clearing, no trees in the background, no natives posturing in front of the Gate. Nothing. 

"Sergeant?" Hammond asked. 

"Sorry, Sir. We’re unable to make contact with the MALP. We’re getting no signal." 

"What?" Jack leaned closer, looking over the telltales and switches. "What the hell’s wrong with this?" 

"Nothing, Sir." The technician paled under O’Neill’s ferocious glare. "The MALP isn’t transmitting." 

"What about audio?" 

"No, Sir. Nothing. We’re unable to make contact." 

Jack spun away from the traitorous console, hands clenched in his hair. "Shit! No! This is **not** happening!" 

"Colonel, get yourself under control!" Hammond’s voice snapped sharply in the tense atmosphere of the control room. "Sergeant, run any diagnostics you’ve got available. See if you can determine what the problem is. And page Major Carter." 

Jack felt a wave of helpless frustration sweep through him. "Sir. **Please,** Sir. Let me take a team through the Gate." 

Hammond shook his head, regret and sympathy impressed on his features. "Sorry, Colonel. That is currently not an option." 

The knot twisted a notch further, choking and burning. Damn damn damn. 

<<<<<>>>>>

He could see it. Tufts of grassy ground cover flourishing along the edges of the forest. Just a few more feet. 

Willis wanted that green carpet in the worst way. Their first day on the cliff had been awful; the second day had been simple hell. As they’d huddled together and shivered on that damned ledge, their abused muscles had stiffened. By the time they’d resumed their journey in the thin light of morning, moving any body part had been agonizing. 

He’d never wanted anything nearly as much as he wanted to get off this damned rock face. 

"Almost there, boys. Jackson, you okay?" 

"Yeah." The man’s voice was rough and breathless. As the trailing part of their hillside crab act, he’d taken the brunt of the punishment since they’d begun to angle up the slope. 

"Okay, let’s do this." Willis felt a hysterical bubble of victory swelling the base of this throat. He couldn’t believe it. They were actually going to make it. As promised, the slope had eased as they’d traveled down the edge of the plateau. But these last few feet were almost vertical. 

Slowly, carefully, he inched closer to that blessed goal, pulling Hindman after him. Jackson boosted from below, grunting occasionally. Just a few more feet. 

He froze as a familiar sound roared in the distance. The Gate. 

They waited for the promised contact. They hadn’t heard any of the natives on the section of the plateau toward which they were laboring. This time they could talk. 

The radio made no sound. Nothing. 

Willis twisted around to look down into Jackson’s concerned face. The archaeologist shrugged slightly, wincing as the movement irritated overstressed muscles. 

"You got Hindman, Jackson?" A weary nod. "Okay…" Willis eased his hand out of its grip on the captain’s vest and triggered the radio. "SGC, this is Lieutenant Willis. Do you copy?" 

Silence. 

"SGC, do you copy?" 

No response. 

"Oh, God." Jackson sounded utterly discouraged. "What do you…" 

"Hey. Don’t you goddam poop out on me now, Geek. Could be a lot of reasons they can’t contact us." 

A whisper of laughter drifted up to him. "Gotcha, Grunt. No pooping. Almost home now, right?" 

"Right. Th’hell with the SGC. We can do this all by ourselves, right?" 

A sigh. "Right. Piece of cake. Let’s get on with it. Colin, you still with us?" 

For a moment, there was no response from the Captain. Then, "Uh… I guess… sorta." 

"Hold on, Colin. Just a few more minutes, then you can rest. Okay?" 

Hindman nodded weakly, and rasped, "Okay." 

"Get on with it, Willis." 

Nodding, Willis turned back to the task. Long, agonizing minutes later, he hauled himself over the rim onto that glorious, beautiful grass. For just a moment, he lay on his back, panting and luxuriating in the lack of dragging weight pulling at his body. Then he rolled over and reached for Hindman. 

"C’mon, Doc. Boost him up here." 

Jackson lifted his sun-burned face, then nodded and shifted his shoulder under Hindman’s weight, shoving upward as Willis hauled from above. In moments, Hindman lay gasping and wheezing on the grass as Willis gently removed the chafing harness. 

"Help Daniel," the captain whispered. 

Willis nodded, clasped his captain gingerly on the shoulder, and turned back to the cliff edge. Jackson was clinging to the rock face, the quivering in his arms advertising his exhaustion. 

"C’mon, Geek. One more haul and you’re with us." 

Anguished blue eyes lifted to gaze into his face. Drawing a deep breath, Jackson began to inch toward Willis’s outstretched hand. 

"Attaway, Boy. Just a bit more." 

"Don’t **pant** call me **pant** **boy** , Grunt. I’m **gasp** seven years older **wheeze** than you!" 

Willis felt the burned skin of his cheeks sting as he grinned. "All in how you look at it, Geek. Now get your pretty ass up here." 

A thread of a chuckle wafted on the air as Jackson returned to his task. Closer… closer. 

"Yes!" Willis exclaimed, stretching to touch a straining hand. Their fingers brushed—almost far enough for a grip. Jackson dragged a foot upward, wedging into one final foothold. 

And then he was slipping, stuttering back down as the rock sheared away under his boot. 

Willis shouted in fury and lunged half over the edge, wrapping desperate fingers around a sweat-slick wrist. 

"No way, you goddam fuckin’ geek! No way! You get your ass up here right the hell **now**!" 

They were slithering over the edge; sliding closer and closer to disaster. Willis snarled and tightened his grip. He blocked out the terror in Jackson’s face, the gasped order to release his desperate hold. He would **not** let it get away from them now. 

But he was slowly heading back over the edge of that fucking cliff, Jackson’s weight just too much for his tentative hold on the grassy surface. 

Abruptly, he felt a weight on his legs, a hand fisted in his vest. It was enough; his own slide arrested, he was able to add his other hand to his grip on the archaeologist’s arm. 

"C’mon, Jackson. Climb up. No way in hell am I going to let you give up now. Get up here!" 

It took way too long, with too many slips and backslides, but finally, at last, all three of them lay gasping on the grass. Under the burn, Jackson’s face was gray. He was shaking all over. 

Willis hauled himself up to sit looking down at the other man. 

"Shit, Geek. You tryin’ to make some sort of **point** , here? Two feet from the top and you decide to go back and do it again?" 

Exhausted, oversized eyes stared up athim as a kaleidoscope of emotions passed over Jackson’s face. For just a moment, Willis understood something of what this life cost a man like Daniel Jackson. 

Then he shook his head and flopped back onto the grass. One gigantic problem dealt with. One impossible one to go. 

<<<<<>>>>>

"How’re you doing, Colin?" Daniel wiped a damp rag gently over the hot skin of the Marine’s face. 

Hindman grimaced weakly. "Still here. I… I’ve about had it Daniel. No more cliffs, okay?" 

Daniel smiled grimly. "No more cliffs. You think you can take care of yourself for a little bit?" 

A flash of panic tightened the injured man’s face. "Alone?" 

"Yeah… We’ve got to go check the situation at the Gate. See if we can get a little shopping in at Ideas-R-Us." 

The Marine’s mouth flexed in what could be interpreted as a smile. 

Fear of discovery had driven them to drag themselves away from the grassy verge and into the strip of forest. They’d located a relatively shielded nook, bounded by leafy shrubbery. The three of them had gone to ground, tending wounds, treating their raw and abraded hands, and wallowing in the incredible relief of having solid ground under their bodies. They’d slowly shared two of the MREs, though Hindman hadn’t eaten much. Then they’d leaned back against convenient tree trunks and repeated their respite activities of the day before. Relaxing, sipping water, resting, and listening to the strong winds that had developed as the afternoon progressed. 

But the day was advancing, and Daniel was absolutely determined that they weren’t going to spend another night away from home. It was imperative that they know what the situation was at the Gate. The alien device had been silent for many hours. It was just possible that the natives had finally calmed down and returned to their home, wherever that was. 

But he wasn’t counting on it. 

Willis slid into their nest. "Looks good, Jackson. Didn’t spot any of those guys in this part of the woods." 

Daniel nodded, then patted Hindman’s shoulder. "You want the last of the morphine now, Colin?" 

Hindman shook his head. "Not a good idea if you’re gonna leave me here. Gotta stay awake." 

"Okay. Here…" Daniel slipped one of their three handguns into Colin’s hand. "Just in case." 

The injured man attempted another smile and waved the weapon in the air. "As long as I don’t actually have to **hit** anything, I should be fine." 

"Right. We won’t be long." With a smile and another pat, Daniel crawled out of their shelter. As he stood, he was ambushed by a wave of vertigo. "Whoa!" 

Willis grabbed his elbow, steadying him. "Yeah, got me at first, too. We’ve been awake more hours than I really want to think about. One way or another, we’ve got to get this settled tonight." 

"Agreed. So… let’s check things out." 

<<<<<>>>>>

They crept cautiously near the edge of the Gate clearing, settling belly-down under a cluster of bushes just short of the open area. The vista wasn’t encouraging. There were at least a dozen ofthe natives moving around the clearing. They’d evidently ransacked the SG teams’ campsite, and had established their own accommodations along the clearing edge most distant from the Stargate. 

Damn. They’d never make it to the DHD, dial, and get through the Gate before those men would be on them. 

Beside him, Jackson let his head droop down to the ground. "Not good," he breathed. 

Willis shook his head silently, gaze traveling over the men across the grassy area. He spoke as quietly as he could. "You suppose these are all the guys still here?" 

"Don’t know. There doesn’t seem to be any traffic to and from right now. And those guys look like they’re settling in for the evening." 

"Yeah." 

"Guess we know why the SGC didn’t contact us." 

Willis grunted. The damage to the MALP was obvious. The casing was dented, the communication equipment smashed. Great. 

For several minutes, they just watched the activities of the natives. Finally, Willis rolled onto his side, looking speculatively at the other man. 

"You know what we need, don’t you?" 

Heavy brows arched in query. 

"We need a diversion. Something to get them out of the way long enough for us to do what we need to do." 

"Diversion." Jackson’s gaze lifted to the trees across the clearing. His brow wrinkled in concentration. "We’ve got all that rope… As powerful as that wind is, it’s tossing the trees around quite a bit. We could probably mess around back in the woods. If we’re careful, they won’t realize it’s not just the wind." 

"Trees? What for?" 

The archaeologist crooked his finger and pointed back through the trees. Willis followed as the other man slithered away from the dangerous area around the Gate. Once they were well clear, he sat up and leaned back against a tree, eyes lifted toward the swaying branches above them. 

"These trees are young, flexible. We could use the ropes to rig up a sort of chain-reaction _sturm und drang_." 

"What?" 

"A big …" he waved his hand vaguely, "…hubbub. Bend the trunks and branches, hold them with the ropes, different sections looped around each other, a whole bunch of branches all tied to one trigger point. Release the key, and everything gets let go at once." 

Willis pursed his mouth and thought. "Could work. Be a hell of a risk setting it up." 

"Mmm," Jackson agreed. "But these heavy winds will help us out. We’d want to set it up late in the day, and set it **off** as near to dark as we can. That would reduce their chances of spotting us at the DHD. Only one problem…" 

"Yeah?" 

"We’d need to set it up on the far side of the clearing. And we’d need to be as close as possible to the DHD when it goes. I don’t have any idea how we could set off the trigger point remotely." 

"Damn." 

"Yeah. Damn." 

Willis sat staring at the archaeologist, noting the tight corners of his mouth, the creases on his bruised and scratched forehead. Jackson leaned his head back and closed his eyes. The Marine shook his head slightly. Filthy, battered, exhausted… the man still looked way too soft for this sort of thing. But the last two days… Grudgingly, Willis realized that he’d experienced a painful attitude adjustment over those days. 

Abruptly, an image popped out of his memory. A vision of a despised and humiliating moment. And very possibly a life-saving one. 

"Ah… Hey, Geek…" 

Jackson’s eyelids lifted. "Hmm?" 

"That… shooting thing." 

The older man’s forehead wrinkled in perplexity. "Shooting thing?" 

"Yeah. One-sixty out of one-sixty." 

"What about it?" 

"Think you can do it again?" 

"Uh… any particular reason you want to discuss this **now**?" 

"Pay attention, Geek! Do you think you can hit a bulls-eye, like, across on the other side of the clearing?" 

Jackson’s body jerked upright. "Wh…what? Here? But I told you… that’s a trick. A firing range thing…" 

Willis was shaking his head. "Look, Doc. You can do it there, you should be able to do it here. You said you just had to really **care** about making the shot. Well, you can’t ever have wanted anything more than you want to get back through that Gate, right?" 

The other man’s eyes were round and vividly blue in the afternoon sunlight. "I can’t," he whispered. 

"The hell you can’t. You have to. It’ll work." 

Jackson’s stunned expression gradually mutated into speculative interest. "I… maybe I can." 

"No maybe. You can; you have to." 

<<<<<>>>>>

Shaking his hands to ease the sting of rope burns, Willis stepped back and surveyed their handiwork. 

It was an amazing bit of construction.They’d worked through the late afternoon hours, excruciatingly carefully and slowly, the tension of listening for discovery shredding already over-taut nerves, afraid to stop for fear they’d fall asleep where they stood. They’d bent and stressed small trees and large branches, using their ropes to form a fishnet of restraints. No knots, no ties—just interwoven and criss-crossed cords trapping dozens of the straining plants. If they’d figured it right, when they released their key-point rope, the whole mess would unravel, allowing those branches to spring back and rattle the entire section of the forest. 

For good measure, they’d taped their three flashlights to the ends of three resilient young trees, their highly directional beams of light presently positioned to point away from the clearing. In the deepening twilight, they were counting on the beams not yet being obvious from the natives’ vantage. But when the trees released, they should sweep through the dark sky like searchlights. 

And one of them was carefully positioned to illuminate a section of rope, wrapped for several inches in white surgical tape from their depleted medical supplies. They desperately hoped that Daniel would be able to focus on that all-important bit of rope from across the clearing. That particular connection had strained their nerves to breaking point, as they’d known that it had to be close to the edge of the forest in order to be visible from what would be the position of their last stand. Willis’s back had crawled with the expectation of the impact of an arrow the entire time they’d been setting that final trap in their Big Hubbub. 

"Okay, Geek. We’re out of rope. Hope the SGC doesn’t take the cost of this stuff out of our paychecks." 

Jackson smiled wearily. "Well, I don’t think they’re going to be getting it back, and somebody has to pay for it." 

Willis snorted. "C’mon. Let’s collect Hindman and get this show on the road. We wait much longer and those lights are gonna attract attention before we’re ready." 

Carefully, they worked their way through the forest to their shrubby nest. Hindman shifted as they crawled in with him. 

"You got it?" 

"Oh, yeah, Captain. We built one hell of a spider’s web. Ready to go home?" 

"God, yes." 

Gently, Willis and Jackson eased theman free of the clinging branches of the bushes. Once they were all standing upright, they moved to either side and offered support for the trek back to the Stargate clearing. 

They dropped to the ground to creep up to the edge. The DHD was a few tantalizing feet in front of them, the Gate just beyond it. 

"You see the target, Jackson?" 

A tight nod answered him. Willis squinted across the clearing, and there it was. A small, blindingly white scrap against the darkness of the twilight forest. He could see the glow from the flashlights illuminating swaths of leaves as well, but none of the natives seemed to be agitated, so he assumed they hadn’t noticed. 

"Good thing you’re far sighted. Okay, Geek. Showtime." 

Jackson’s body was tight with tension, hands trembling. 

"I… I can’t." 

"We been through this before, Doc." 

"If I miss…" 

"If you miss, we got no diversion. Just a big loud noise on **this** side of the clearing, which we really don’t want. So you can’t miss." 

Wide blue eyes locked with his gaze. No pressure, Doc. Right. 

"I… I can. Right. I can do this." 

The archaeologist turned back to stare at the scrap of white across the grassy clearing. Then he closed his eyes and breathed deeply—in and out, several times. When his eyes opened again, the panic was gone. 

Carefully, he shifted to sit cross-legged. "Okay." His voice was calm. "If this works the way we want it to, they should all head into the trees across the clearing. I go for the DHD; you get Colin to the Gate and send the GDO code." 

"You got it, Doc. Oh… just in case we d… well, just in case… You’d make a helluva Marine, Geek." 

Jackson’s head turned toward him, tired smile pale in the fading twilight. "I’ll try to take that as a compliment, Grunt. And there’s hope for you after all." 

For a moment, they grinned stupidly at each other, then Jackson turned his gaze back to his impossible target. He drewthree slow, deliberate breaths, then lifted the gun he held, extending it in that textbook-perfect stance. One more breath, and he pulled the trigger. 

<<<<<>>>>>

Jack O’Neill was sick, sick, sick of this conference room. They talked and talked, argued and argued, and did nothing. Settled nothing. 

They were right where they’d been nearly three days ago. Stuck. And, just for good measure, uninformed. They had no idea what was going on with their missing men. And now they had no way to check on the natives’ activity. 

They’d resisted the irrational urge to connect to the Gate on P3Z 708. It was pointless. And maybe if the Gate stayed quiet for long enough, the natives would go home. Not that they’d know it. 

"Sir… I don’t see that we have any other choice! We **have** to find out what’s going on over there!" 

"Colonel, I’m beginning to soften toward the notion of sending a team back through the Gate, based on the expectation that eventually the natives will tire of watching an inactive Stargate. But we’ll send a second MALP through first. I can’t let you…" 

The klaxons rudely interrupted. O’Neill exchanged a desperately hopeful glance with Carter, then jumped to his feet to follow Hammond to the control room. 

"Off-world activation!" the speakers blared. 

‘Oh God oh God. Let it be them!’ Jack thought desperately. 

He stood poised at the top of the metal staircase, waiting for the identification code. 

"Are we receiving a code yet, Sergeant?" 

"No, Sir. Wait!" The man leaned forward eagerly. "Yes! SG-3, Sir! It’s SG-3!" 

"Yes!" Jack shouted, spinning to run down the stairs and into the Gate room. 

He stood at the base of the ramp as the turbulent energy flux erupted from the Gate. Movement in his peripheral vision told him that Hammond, Teal’c and Carter had joined him. And, belatedly, Colonel Pall. 

The Gate’s transit time had never seemed longer. Just as he was swinging back into despair, the event horizon rippled and distorted.

Jack’s mouth stretched into a recently unfamiliar grin. Oh, yeah. 

Three men stood swaying at the top of the ramp. Three filthy, scruffy, sunburned, beautiful men. Daniel and Willis were supporting Hindman between them. They all looked like they’d been dragged behind a truck, but they were also all undeniably alive. 

After a long moment of dead silence, Daniel croaked, "Medic!" 

The barely audible word broke the spell that had gripped them. Jack vaulted up the ramp just in time to catch Hindman as Daniel collapsed down to sit on the ramp. He glanced up to see Willis in a similar state, Hammond bent over him. The Marine sat swaying for a moment, then flopped down, flat on his back. 

Shifting aside to let Janet and her crew get to Hindman, Jack crouched down in front of Daniel, grasping his shoulders and shaking him slightly. 

"Hey, Danny. You all right?" 

Daniel gazed vaguely at him. "Uh… sorta." 

"Lieutenant?" Hammond’s voice was gentle but urgent. "Lieutenant Willis?" 

The Marine’s right hand flopped bonelessly, not quite achieving the salute he’d apparently intended. "General… S…sir. We k…kicked buttzzzz." 

Jack’s brows jerked upward as the words faded into a snore. He turned his attention back to the body between his hands, which was beginning to list a bit. "Daniel?" 

A small, wordless murmur emerged from the region of Daniel’s collarbone. Jack released one shoulder to slide his hand behind the other man’s drooping head. "Hey, Danny." 

Daniel looked hazily up into Jack’s face, then managed a weak little smile. "… kicked butt…" he breathed. Then his head dropped down to rest on Jack’s shoulder. 

"Oh, Danny." He wrapped his arms around his teammate’s wilting body, feeling the laughter of pure relief constricting his throat. He raised his eyes to share the moment with Sam and Teal’c, who had crowded close to the side of the ramp to touch the man they’d thought lost. "Hey, buddy. Hang in there." 

Daniel’s head rolled on Jack’s shoulder. "… sleep now…" he whispered faintly.

Still laughing, Jack tightened his hold. "Soon, big guy. But first I think you’ve got an overdue appointment with a certain very feisty doctor. And she’s had it in for you ever since you were three days late for your last physical. Don’t count on me to run interference. C’mon—on your feet." 

Gently, the three of them shepherded their lost lamb out of the Gate room. 

<<<<<>>>>>

Epilogue 

O’Neill shook his head, clicking his tongue in mock disgust. 

"You three look like you came out on the wrong end of an argument with a tank." 

Daniel’s eyelids slid up halfway. Bright blue glinted from sunken eye sockets. "Go ‘way, Jack." 

Jack grinned. "Nah. You layabouts have been sloughing off for the last…" he glanced at his watch, "…fourteen hours. Time to get back to work." 

A deep groan vibrated the frame of the next bed. Willis rolled over onto his side, eying the Air Force colonel with distinct malice. 

"Hey, Geek, you let him get away with that sort of thing?" 

Daniel laughed softly. "Well, Grunt, it’s not precisely a matter of ‘letting’ him do anything. Sometimes I think they made him a colonel so he could give everybody else orders, seeing as how he’s so bad at taking them himself." 

Jack’s brows rose in mild surprise. Interesting. 

"Ah… So, kids… Do I sense something of a… truce, here?" 

Daniel and Willis exchanged glances, then turned in tandem to examine O’Neill. They looked oddly similar—shoulders covered by the thin, white cotton of infirmary gowns, faces smeared with soothing ointment, hands swathed in bandages. 

Willis’s cracked lips quirked into a grin. "Guess you could call it that." He turned back to Daniel. "You’re still a geek, Doc, but you’re okay. I’ll be on your team any time you want me. Stubbornest man I ever met." 

Daniel returned the Marine’s smile. "And you’re still a grunt, but you’re okay, too. Guess we both learned some things."

Jack shook his head, bemused. "So when did this happen? **How** did this happen?" 

Willis rolled back to stare, grinning, at the infirmary ceiling. "There’s something about hangin’ around, clinging to a cliff with your toe- and fingernails, that gives you a real clear view of life. I think I experienced a… an… um…" 

"Epiphany," Daniel supplied. "You had an epiphany." 

"Yeah? And that would be?" 

"A great big revelation," Jack supplied. 

He was once again targeted by two pairs of bright blue eyes. Daniel’s mouth was round with surprise. 

"What? I can’t know **words** , Doctor Jackson?" 

"Well, it is an unusual role for you, Jack." 

"Hey! I know lots of words." He assumed his most virtuous, intellectual expression. "And I saw Hook four times." 

Laughter filled the infirmary.

"Shit. That hurts. You guys wanna let me take advantage of my invalid status, here? Might as well try to sleep in a railroad station." 

Jack glanced over his shoulder, smiling into Hindman’s drowsy eyes. 

"Hey, Captain. How you doin’?" 

"Been better, Sir. But I gotta tell you… I’m gonna give Daniel my firstborn son. And Willis can have the second. I may feel like week-old dog poop, but I’m alive, and I’m home. All thanks to them." 

Daniel sat up carefully, turning toward Hindman’s face. "I’m really sorry, Colin. I didn’t mean to push you two over that cliff…" 

"Shut up, Doc." Willis’s voice was firm. "You got nothing to apologize for. We made it—pretty much all due to you. Stuff up and accept your kudos like a man." 

Daniel’s already sunburned face reddened further. "Uh… okay. I’ll shut up. Just let me point out that we made it because we made a good team. No one would have come home if we hadn’t managed that. Under the circumstances, I guess that makes our success more than a little bit of a miracle." 

The two Marines chuckled again. Then Willis turned sober. 

"Colonel O’Neill… what happened to the rest of my team?" 

Jack leaned back in his chair, letting his gaze drift from one to another of the three men. "Well, Lieutenant Everett was pretty badly injured during our retreat to the Gate. He’s been transferred to the Academy Hospital for some reconstructive surgery. He’ll probably be invalided out. Colonel Pall…" He shifted uneasily. "Well, it’s been suggested to Colonel Pall that he might be happy in a different post. He’s been… invited to request a transfer. I think he’llaccept the opportunity. And that brings us to you, Willis…" 

Daniel shifted against his pillow. "Jack…" 

"Relax Daniel. We’re going to want to debrief the three of you pretty thoroughly, but from what I’ve seen so far… I’m guessing that Lieutenant Willis might just have what it takes to make it here. And Captain Hindman, you’ll be back on the job in no time. Of course, now we have to go shopping for a couple more Marines for SG-3. But I’m thinking you two will be able to clue them in. Nice work, Daniel, Willis. All of you. And, God knows, welcome back. You had us good and scared." 

Again, Daniel and Willis exchanged knowing looks. 

"Scared?" Willis asked. "Sir, you have absolutely no idea!" 

Jack winced in sympathy. "Bad." 

Daniel nodded silently. 

There was an awkward moment of silence, then Willis leaned over to toss a wad of paper at Daniel’s head. 

"Just one more thing, Doc. You gonna show me how to do that sharp-shooting thing?’’ 

Daniel’s lips quirked into his sweet, mischievous smile. "Oh, I don’t know. It’s… well, it’s kind of a… Geek thing." 

**The End**

  


* * *

  


> 
>     Notes:  This story originally appeared in Ashton Press's fine fanzine "Redemption #1."  
>     More than a year has passed since its publication, so I can now post this to the web :^)
>     
>     
>     This was my first major gen story.
>     
>     
>     Thanks to my beta extraordinaire Poss for keeping my mechanics in line, and thanks to specialty consultants Rowan, 
>     for the firearms stuff, and Obelix for the hand to hand stuff.  And as always thanks to my great mystery medical beta, 
>     who prefers to remain an enigma.

* * *

>   
>  © August 21, 2003 Stargate  
>  SG-1 and its characters are properties of Showtime/Viacom, MGM/UA, Double  
>  Secret Productions and Gekko Productions. Much to my sorrow, I think  
>  that precludes me claiming either the archaeologist or the colonel. Original  
>  characters, situations and story are the property of the author and are not to be appropriated without the permission of the author. This story  
>  is intended for entertainment purposes only; no money will be made with  
>  it. Trust me. No money.  
> 

* * *

  



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